


Aux Grands Maux, Les Grands Remèdes

by daphnerunning, Galiko



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:57:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galiko/pseuds/Galiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Commissioned fic. Unbeknownst to Sinbad, Ja'far has hidden a terminal illness for years now. When he collapses one day, it becomes painfully clear exactly how little time they have left with one another, and Sinbad, in his desperate efforts to find a healer, enlists Judal's help. The Magi strikes a deal with him, and Ja'far is less than pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

One of the best things about Ja’far is that he’s a hard worker. 

 

In fact, he’s _such_ a hard worker that it’s one of the _worst_ things about Ja’far.

 

It’s taken weeks of begging, wheedling, cajoling and pleading, but finally, _finally_ Ja’far has agreed that for _one night only_ , it might not be so bad to let the papers sit on his desk, especially if Sinbad puts it under the guise of inspecting certain areas of the city they rarely get the chance to frequent.

 

It’s _nice_ , having Ja’far by his side as they stride through the streets, and in casual clothes, no less. That had taken intervention by the other generals, but Ja’far looks softer, less intimidating, less like a state official like this. Maybe now, they’ll actually be able to enjoy a meal in peace. “Pick your poison--not literally. There’s a place near here that roasts fish whole, or a family place with a pot of stew on at all hours. Whatever suits your mood.” _And if you say it would suit your mood to eat nothing and stare at papers all day again, I’ll pick you up and carry you._

 

Ja'far _wants_ to firmly remind Sinbad that it doesn't matter what 'suits his mood' because food, in general, rarely does. He'd survive on tea all day if he were allowed to, with food as tasteless on his tongue as ever, but he merely bites down on a sigh, folding his arms up within his robes with a shrug that he hopes isn't too noncommittal. Sinbad had been so _eager_ , so _excited_ to drag him out of the office that he might as well not be too terribly sour about it, even if the heat already makes him tired, and curling up with a pile of scrolls would, in general, be a much less stressful way to spend his evening. 

 

It's Sinbad, though, and as loathe as he is to admit it, the man does have something of a monopoly on puppy eyes…

 

"Fish is fine--isn't that place usually a bit quieter, too?" 

 

“It is! I’m surprised you remember. What was it, three years ago?” 

 

Sinbad reminisces aloud the entire way to the restaurant, pausing only to smile and chat with some of the Sindrians passing by, remembering just in time _not_ to put his arm around Ja’far’s shoulders. It feels so _natural_ , the two of them out like this even after so long. 

 

The proprietor remembers them, lighting a small candle to keep out the dark, hurrying over with two large salt-and-herb crusted fish on platters. Sinbad raises a glass of wine, eyes sparkling. “May this be the third of many.”

 

"Wishful thinking," is Ja'far's sigh of a retort, but he allows a faint, wry smile nonetheless as he lifts his wine glass, gently clinking it against Sinbad's before taking a long sip. The meal _smells_ good, and more importantly, Sinbad is happy. Once in awhile, it's good to appease his king in things like this, Ja'far thinks as he takes a bite. "Don't scoop out the fish eyes in front of me. That's disgusting."

 

Sinbad laughs, starting with the tail instead, scraping off the thick coating of salt to get to the tender flesh beneath. “Would you rather I leave them on the plate? That’s just a waste of good food.”

 

"It's more the way you _do_ it. You slurp them, it's really unbefitting of a king," Ja'far sniffs, jabbing his fork briefly in Sinbad's direction. "Speaking of things unbefitting of a king--still being unmarried at your age."

 

“My age? You talk as if I’m decrepit. I’ve got another….oh, at least another hundred years in me.” Ignoring Ja’far’s protests, he scoops out an eye, popping it into his mouth. “What does it matter, as long as I’m not harassing foreign princesses?”

 

"They want to harass _you_ ," Ja'far bluntly points out, and he grimaces openly when Sinbad slurps the damned thing anyway. Ignoring the slow churn of his own stomach, he gingerly digs out the eye of his own fish and sets it on Sinbad's plate. "You're going to be 30 in a few years. Start acting your age and settle."

 

“What’s the point? If I need someone to nag me, I already have you. And I hardly need someone to do my washing.” Sinbad tries not to shudder openly at the idea of taking a wife. Really, Ja’far knows how to turn his stomach like no other.

 

"A _queen_ wouldn't be doing the washing. She'd be bearing you a proper heir, and help you rule this country." Ja'far snorts, reaching over to take a slow sip of his wine. Talking about this subject always gives him a headache, and now is no different, with the dull, throbbing ache in his temples. "You aren't going to be around forever, and neither am I. Take a wife and produce a legitimate heir for once." 

 

Sinbad waves a hand, dismissing the idea. “Let’s talk instead about next week’s festival.  Do you have any ideas for the ice sculptures? Yamuraiha volunteered, she’ll do them at least the size of buildings.”

 

Ja'far settles upon giving him a put-out stare before poking back around his fish. "Make one of your shirtless chest. The women will be thrilled." _That's a joke, please realize it's a joke._

 

“I’m sure they’ll prefer to see the real thing,” Sinbad says with a grin. “Maybe I’ll have her do one of your smile, that’s less likely to make an appearance.”

 

The younger man's eyes narrow. "Perhaps that has to do with a certain king and the ridiculousness of his day-to-day actions. Have a deep sea monster made, just make sure it's not too realistic or Sharrkan will get confused." 

 

“He’s almost certain to do that anyway, regardless.” Sinbad takes a large bite, delicately spitting out a few bones. “Say….this is a fine country, isn’t it? I’ve never had fish so good anywhere under the sun.”

 

 _Give this country a queen and it'll be even better_ is the quip on the tip of his tongue, but Ja'far forgoes nagging, figuring he's done his share for the evening. If only that odd, lingering headache would just go away… A sigh, and he nibbles on another bite, nodding. "It has a fine king. Perhaps even the fish are aware of that, and decide to suit your tastes exactly." Ja'far smiles faintly. "I'm getting the impression, though, that you aren't going to drag me out to see less-frequented areas of the city as planned, are you?" 

 

“I’m no liar! Certainly I am.” Sinbad chews, thinking. “When’s the last time you saw the tournament hall, or the musician’s arena? Those are much less-frequented, at least by us.”

 

"A few months, at least." Well, if he's going to be dragged about, it could be far worse… "Whatever you want to see is fine, Sin. Shall I grant you a coupon to lead me wherever you wish tonight?" 

 

“That does seem like the kind of thing you would respect. You needn’t write it out, your word is good enough. And promise,” he adds, somewhat sternly, “to at least _attempt_ to enjoy yourself. No musician is as good with you glowering in the background, looking at the sun and waiting for it to be over.”

 

"I'm hardly so rude! Well, unless the sun is out and glaring on me," Ja'far mutters with a huff of distaste. "That's one thing about this country that I could do without." 

 

“At least unlike up _north_ ,” Sinbad points out, stealing a bite of Ja’far’s fish, “the day and night have the decency to stick to their schedules, not go changing about with the seasons.”

 

Ja'far rolls his eyes, taking another bite and ignoring Sinbad's own prodding fork. "Mmn. Says the weakling that can't handle the cold for five minutes. I may hate the heat, but I can still work in it."

 

“All the more reason to have fun at night when it’s nice and cool!” Sinbad leans back, eyes going to the open window, and the stars sparkling above. “There might be dancing tonight, you know.”

 

"That is not included in the coupon." 

 

Sinbad makes a face. “So cruel. You make the girls of the city pine their lives away for you.”

 

Ja'far laughs outright at that, and promptly shoves what remains of his fish in Sinbad's direction. "You _must_ be joking. I blend with the sand, there's little to pine for." 

 

Sinbad eats without question, only casting the occasional glance up at his advisor. “You’re really that unaware of it? I’m surprised. Maybe you’re more ignorant than cold-hearted, but there really are girls who band together to trade stories of one time you walked by them in the street.”

 

"You're _joking_ ," Ja'far repeats, blinking in open confusion over the mere concept. "Or you're talking about the things they say about _you_." 

 

“Hard to get, easy to want.” Sinbad shrugs. “I’ve never understood that phrase myself. I’m quite easy to get, and everyone still seems to want me. Shall I recite you a poem I heard about that reserved charm of yours?”

 

"No. No, absolutely not." Ja'far grabs his wine glass, downing it back in one solid swallow. "Also, you shouldn't so proudly proclaim how _easy_ you are."

 

“Why not? Are you afraid someone will take advantage of me?” Sinbad’s eyes glitter. “That sounds rather enjoyable. Are you volunteering?”

 

"… You say this as if no one has taken advantage of you _before_ ," Ja'far deadpans. 

 

“Well.” Sinbad pauses, considering it for a moment. “True. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want it to happen again.”

 

"Pass." Ja'far's head cocks. "Besides, when you want it so obviously, it isn't nearly as enjoyable."

 

Sinbad ignores the slight, just giving Ja’far an even look. “And you wonder why people want you?”

 

"Y…es, I do." 

 

“Because you act like you don’t want it, obviously. Toying with young women’s hearts, refusing even a dance--there are rumors you’re pining for a lost love back north, you know.”

 

"… But it isn't acting. I genuinely don't want it. Or them. It's nothing against them, I'm just not interested."

 

“But to a woman, what do you think the difference is, between acting uninterested and being uninterested?” Sinbad raises an eyebrow. “The old question, isn’t it?”

 

Ja'far's brow furrows. "It's a question I don't ask at all. Why are you so intent to see me with a woman? _I'm_ not the one that needs to produce heirs." 

 

“Neither am I. Sindria is a beautiful country full of good, happy, well-fed people, and their king is young. Heirs are for old kings who don’t know any worthy young men.”

 

Ja'far bites his tongue. Hard. Better than arguing with Sinbad is always _bargaining_ , especially when he's feeling more tired by the moment. "If you at least _consider_ a couple of potential women over the next month, I'll let you ask me for a dance." 

 

All thoughts of women fly out of Sinbad’s head, and his eyes light up. He finishes the rest of his fish in a flash, standing and holding out his hand. “You have my word. Come, let’s go!”

 

It's actually somewhat cute to watch Sinbad be like this, no matter how it always is initially irritating as hell. A sigh, and Ja'far carefully rises, taking Sinbad's hand with a wry smile. "You _know_ I merely wish the best for you. I won't always be here, and I'd rather you always have someone at your side. You tend to flounder without." 

 

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll always have you.” Sinbad squeezes Ja’far’s hand, leading him out of the restaurant, a few golden coins shining on the table. “I’d be lost any other way.”

 

"It's not so good just to rely on one person," Ja'far cautions, following at Sinbad's heels. "Isn't that why you have _eight_ generals?"

 

“But they aren’t you.” Sinbad shrugs. “They all have their uses, and they’re all indispensible for their talents, as you are for yours. Why, are you considering a change of career? You’d make an excellent sailor.”

 

"I get seasick," is the deadpan retort to follow. "And no, I'm merely being realistic." Annoying, that the heat of the sun is still about, even when it sets. "Forgive me for wanting to see you taken care of properly." 

 

“Then don’t go anywhere. That way you can make certain I’m always well taken-care of.” Sinbad smiles, tugging Ja’far down a series of alleys, leading to the Musician’s Quarter. “We don’t want to be late!”

 

"Missing the point, as per usual," Ja'far mutters, and he briefly shuts his eyes as he's tugged along, shoving away a wave of dizziness. Food and heat and being dragged through the streets don't bode well on the best of days. This, apparently, isn't a better day to begin with. "You know, I said I would let you _ask_ me for a dance, not that I'd agree to one." 

 

Sinbad stops short, turning and bringing Ja’far’s hand up to his lips, still in the darkness of an alleyway. “Dance with me?” he asks, eyes sparkling, and kisses pale fingers. “Please?”

 

Ja'far's mouth opens and closes, and he's reminded of exactly how difficult it is to _argue_ with Sinbad. 

 

It isn't the blush that rises to his cheeks that makes him lightheaded, though, and he knows it. Ja'far wobbles against any and all attempts not to, and ah, that's less lightheadedness and more outright feeling he's going to faint. 

 

There's a joke here, about swooning like some pathetic maiden, but he can't quite make it when everything is sudden a dozen times too hot, his blood thrumming in his ears is all he hears, and it feels distinctly like the world bottoms out beneath him when his knees buckle. 

 

Sinbad’s first reaction probably isn’t as panicked as it should be. He catches Ja’far easily, sighing a bit as he carries the younger man out a couple streets to the beach. He lays his robe on the ground, laying Ja’far atop it, and gently pats his cheeks, his hands. “Ja’far? Ah, you shouldn’t have let me eat so much of your fish, you’ve been living on tea again, haven’t you?”

 

 _That's a good excuse_ , Ja'far dimly thinks, even as his head lolls, still too-heavy. "Mm… tea, and too hot," he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm fine. Just--help me up--"

 

The twitching _throb_ that spikes across his temples is different, far more of a sharp pain than any long-thudding ache, and that's one of the last things Ja'far properly recalls before his eyes roll back. 

 

This is no ordinary faint.

 

The second Sinbad realizes it--sees Ja’far pass out _again_ and start twitching, making upsetting little noises--he lifts Ja’far and sprints back to the palace, thundering down the halls to kick open the door to Yamuraiha’s room. “Get up!” he shouts, as someone hides under the bed and Yamuraiha exclaims something in protest. “He’s hurt, there’s something wrong, look at him!”

 

 _Interruptions_ seem to be such a common thing these days that Yamuraiha is skilled with tying a sheet tightly in place about her (mostly) naked body as she slides from the bed. "Lay him down, ah, and pull his head back, though he's probably already bitten his tongue--" she stresses, and with a scowl, slams her foot down into Sharrkan's back. "Go get the palace healer, make some use of yourself! Sinbad, he didn't eat anything strange, did he?" It's such an _odd_ question to ask about Ja'far, who has always seemed so invulnerable to everything, and Yamuraiha worries her lower lip as a flick of her wrist at least brings enough cold, near-icy air about the man to cool him down and calm his seizing. 

 

“Just a bit of fish!” Sinbad calls over his shoulder, already running for the healer’s room. He grabs her without asking, not having patience for her protests, depositing her almost in Yamuraiha’s lap within seconds. “What’s wrong with him? Is it poison? Is it magic?”

 

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, but it's impossible to work with you hovering, so get _out_."

 

The healer is an older woman, but astoundingly forceful when need be, and in short order, Sinbad and Sharrkan alike find themselves succinctly tossed out of the room with the door shut in their faces. 

 

Sinbad paces for almost five minutes before looking up, blinking at Sharrkan. “What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

 

Sharrkan stops mid-stride. “Uh. I….just got here?”

 

Sinbad ignores that, staring at the closed door. “What could it be? An attack? The heat, but worse than usual?”

 

Another five minutes, and the door opens to Yamuraiha less than gracefully falling out of it, huffing as she drags the sheet up and around her more properly. "She refuses to work with me there," she sniffs, brushing a lock of hair from her face. "Something about Ja'far's 'privacy' that he'd like to have maintained. For what it's worth, he seems to have settled now, though he isn't awake yet."

 

That’s _something_ , though not nearly enough. Sinbad doesn’t even pause in his pacing, hardly looking up. “Do you have any idea what it is? Poison, parasite, magic? Whatever it is, I’m going to hunt it down.”

 

Yamuraiha hesitates, slowly shaking her head. "I thought poison at first, but… when has Ja'far ever been affected by something like that? I have to wonder if it's just the heat after all. You know it's been awful lately, and he's never dealt with the humidity very well." She frowns, eyeing Sinbad. "You should _know_ better than to drag him out in it." 

 

“I--” 

 

Sinbad closes his mouth, swallowing hard. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. I just wanted him to enjoy himself.”

 

A sigh, and Yamuraiha sinks back onto her heels with a shake of her head. "I'm sure he'll be fine. You just need to _think_ about these sorts of things, you're all so irresponsible sometimes. Stop pacing and maybe go and do something constructive, you _know_ how he'll be when he wakes up." Really, this should be common sense at the _least_. 

 

 _No, I don’t, because he’s never been sick before._ It’s enough to make Sinbad’s heart flutter with anxiety, the idea that something could really be _wrong_ , because if it’s strong enough to bring Ja’far down, to make him shake and sputter like that, then surely it’s strong enough to crush any hopes he has for the future. 

 

Well, that’s hardly productive. He shakes off those thoughts, nodding. “Right. Go bring some of the scrolls on his desk, I’ll work on them here.”

 

Yamuraiha frowns, but she nods all the same, turning on her heel as she grabs hold of Sharrkan's arm to drag him with her. "We'll be back soon enough with everything. Sit down and stay put."

 

Sinbad hardly notices them leaving, sinking down to the floor. This doesn’t seem _right_. He’s seen Ja’far “ill” a hundred times, especially from heat. He’s never looked like that, never felt clammy and uncontrollable, never been out for such a long period of time. _And if it really is my fault…._

 

The lump in his stomach turns over.

 

It's an hour or so later before the door finally cracks open, and the healer Amina steps from the room, eyeballing the sight of Sinbad, stressed and surrounded by scrolls on the floor. "He's still groggy, but he's awake," she announces, folding her arms. "If you like, you can take him back to his own chambers. He's rather insistent upon giving Miss Yamuraiha her bed back." 

 

Sinbad leaves the scrolls behind so fast they flutter on the ground, hurrying to Ja’far’s side. He notices so much more now, the dark circles under his eyes, the pallor of his skin, and he takes one pale hand in his, squeezing. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have taken you out in the heat, I know how you hate it.”

 

"It's not your fault," is the irritable retort, and Ja'far gives Sinbad's hand a squeeze in return, thinking it's quite firm when in reality, it's anything _but_. "I've been working quite a bit, I should have known better. Just help me back to my room so I can sleep properly, will you?" Shoving himself up onto his elbows is a test in endurance when it really shouldn't be.

 

“This is more than just _working hard_ ,” Sinbad protests, tucking Ja’far up in a blanket before lifting him into his arms. “Fainting, you’ve done before. This was different.” A shadow crosses his face, and he says mock-sternly, “Don’t forget, you promised never to leave my side.”

 

"I said I would follow you to the end." Correcting Sinbad on such a thing isn't the way he wants to spend his evening, and Ja'far immediately dismisses it with a firm, "I've _just_ been working hard. I'm sorry to ruin your plans for the evening." 

 

“It’s fine, don’t be ridiculous.” Sinbad steps carefully around the scrolls, heading to Ja’far’s chambers, and hesitating. “You should come to my rooms tonight. You always sleep better in my bed.”

 

He isn't in the mood to argue. In fact, he's in the mood to do everything _but_ , and Ja'far sighs, nodding as he lets his eyes slide shut, his head tipping to rest against Sinbad's shoulder. "All right. I'll… if you want, you can still have that dance later."

 

“Another time.” Right now, Sinbad is too intent on feeling the weight of Ja’far in his arms, the solid, reassuring warmth of him, void of that clammy cold, those awful shakes. He lays Ja’far out in his bed, moving over to stand at the window, hands braced on the sill. It’s possible, just possible, that he doesn’t yet trust himself not to squeeze Ja’far until he bursts.

 

The next day, Sinbad recruits a bit of help, and goes to see the healer first thing in the morning.

 

Well, a bit before the first thing.

 

More like, while she’s sleeping. 

 

He stands on one side, Masrur looming on the other, and says cheerfully, “Good morning, milady!”

 

Amina has woken to many things in her life, though _this_ is certainly a first. 

 

Staring up at the king and one of his generals is new, but not unexpected, and she pushes herself up, a deferential bow of her head following. "And what can I help His Majesty with first thing this… daybreak?"

 

“My apologies for this intrusion,” Sinbad says, not sorry at all. “I was hoping you’d be so kind--I had made the grave mistake of forgetting to ask you exactly what had brought my companion so low last night. And you had neglected to tell me.”

 

Precisely as she expected. "Forgive me, my king, but that was because of his own desire for privacy. He has requested that I be discrete and I would appreciate a chance to obey his wishes." 

 

“Excellent. Now obey mine.” Sinbad sits on the bed, smile unchanging. “Tell me what’s wrong with him.”

 

Amina's eyebrows raise. "To be clear--you're overriding his orders? I ask, King Sinbad, so I know what to tell him when he comes breaking my door in." 

 

Ah yes, easy enough. Sometimes Sinbad forgets even now that he’s a _king_. “Yes. I’m overriding his orders. Politely.”

 

"I'm not to be blamed for what he does to _you_ , then," the old woman grumbles, and she promptly throws her legs over the side of the bed with a shake of her head. "This isn't the first time, nor it will be the last. Ja'far has seen me for treatment for many years since I came to this palace, and it has done little." 

 

Sinbad feels it when his smile freezes. “Treatment? For what?” _Many years_ , she’d said--Ja’far has known about this, _hidden_ it, and those things together make Sinbad’s hands clench.

 

A careful shrug follows. "That, I'm hardly certain. It's no disease or ailment that I have seen in all my years, and treating any of its symptoms seems to have little effect in abating it. With each year, though, it seems as though his weakness has grown, and that he's more prone to those spells that you saw yesterday."

 

“What else?” Sinbad’s voice is tight now, all his attention, all is consciousness focused on the healer who seems in this moment to hold his life in her hands. “Just the spells? How frequent?”

 

"The spells, general lethargy as far as he's allowed me to know, headaches, nausea, and he last mentioned a bit of loss of sensation in one of his arms the other day, though that seems to come and go as does everything." Amina sighs up at him. "You seem to think he tells me everything, King Sinbad, when in reality, he is hardly less secretive with me as he is with you."

 

“Absurd,” Sinbad mutters to himself. “How are you supposed to cure him if he holds secrets from you?” He worries at his lip, then asks, “Meaning no disrespect to your illustrious self, Lady Amina, but do you know of any healers more practiced in dealing with ailments of this nature? Anywhere in the world, I care not where.”

 

"If there were, I would have sent for them," she honestly replies, expression tired. "King Sinbad… he seems to already know the extent of what ails him. I happen to believe he came to me mostly for help in prolonging the inevitable."

 

Sinbad gives her a brief, mirthless smile. “I don’t believe in inevitability. What aid can you give him?”

 

"I don't think," she carefully answers, "anything has ever done much good. A hot cup of tea seems to work as well as the strongest herbal or magical healing I have attempted." 

 

“Then,” Sinbad continues, trying to keep as calm as he can, “how long do you think he has left, before he becomes unable to work?” Which, for Ja’far, is at least as bad as death.

 

"If it were up to me, he wouldn't be working at all right _now_." Amina snorts. "Try telling him that, though. Lord Ja'far is very stubborn." 

 

“Not until it becomes difficult,” Sinbad corrects her, “until it becomes physically impossible. Give me a number. Assume his body is fighting it as hard as it can, and he will ignore any and all pain.”

 

"… If the rate of progression continues, maybe another month." 

 

Sinbad stands abruptly, as if distancing himself from the information as well as the bearer. “Thank you for your hard work, and your opinions. I’m sorry to have disturbed you from your rest.”

 

He’s not shaking outwardly, but the smallest twitch of his head shows him that Ja’far doesn’t stand at his side as he walks down the corridor, headed for his chambers, and that’s enough to make him cold down to his toes. “Masrur. Not a word to Ja’far about this.”

 

“Understood.”

 

Sinbad looks up at him, and notices the tight set of the Fanalis’s shoulders, the clench of his jaw. “Are you going to obey that order?”

 

Masrur looks down at him. “Do I have to?”

 

Sinbad opens his mouth, then closes it again. “No. Do as you see fit.”

 

“Understood. Leave to go.”

 

“Granted. Don’t bring him those garish red flowers, he hates those.” Sinbad watches Masrur go, walking more slowly up to his room, speeding up when he remembers _time is limited_. He opens the door, half-afraid the healer was wrong and he’s _already_ \--

 

Ja'far blinks over at him, up from bed in spite of all requests Sinbad gave him the night prior to sleep in, and already half-dressed, to boot. "Sin. I was surprised to see you gone so early--is something the matter?" Ah, but his hands shake, just a bit, when he reaches back to yank the strings of his obi tight. Ja'far ignores it all the same in favor of frowning at the other man. "You look like you've seen a ghost. What's happened?"

 

“I bullied your healer,” Sinbad admits immediately, striding across the floor to take Ja’far in his arms despite any protests. “I’m _furious_ with you, do you have any idea how long I could have been working on finding you a cure for this?”

 

It takes a moment for that to _click_ , a moment for his face to pale and a pit form in his stomach, and Ja'far sucks in a slow, measured breath, shaking his head as he rests his hands against Sinbad's chest to push him back. "There _isn't_ a cure." It's hardly what he wants to say, but it escapes anyway, his heart thudding in his chest and his mouth dry. "You weren't… I didn't want you to find out." _Because you'd be like this._  

 

“You don’t _know_ there’s no cure!” Sinbad doesn’t relax his arms in the slightest, tightening them if anything, and at the thought that in less than a month his arms could be _empty_ , a spike of panic goes through him. It’s hard to tamp down, but he breathes deeply, one hand fisting in the back of Ja’far’s tunic. “I wouldn’t--I wouldn’t have dragged you out last night, or a hundred other times--were you just going to--to _die_ , and leave me without a word?”

 

"Hardly! I would have at least finished everything set before me, and all that you needed of me!" Ja'far's chest tightens as he swallows, face firmly pressed into Sinbad's shoulder. "The best healers don't even know what it _is_ , Sin. There isn't a cure, and I've long accepted that. Just… let me finish everything that I can. Your country is living proof of what _you_ are capable of, with or without me." 

 

“If they aren’t capable, they _aren’t_ the best healers!” Ja’far’s acceptance doesn’t bother Sinbad. It doesn’t make him want to slay the demon trying to take Ja’far from him any less, though. “We’ll find something. You--you’re not supposed to leave me. I won’t let you out of that promise so soon.”

 

"I'm not breaking any damned promise." Ja'far sags into Sinbad's chest, suddenly and acutely too tired to argue all over again. "I said I would follow you until the end. I can't pick when that is." 

 

Sinbad lets his hand come up, threading through Ja’far’s hair. “Shh. Just...stop.” He swallows, breathing out a slow breath through his nose. “You should have come to me. We’ll think of something. Like you said, look what I built.”

 

_You couldn’t save your mother, though. Disease always wins._

 

Sinbad’s eyes burn. _Not this time._

 

~~

 

"If you _really_ think I am going to stay cooped up in here, you've another thing coming!"

 

Sinbad is _insufferable_. He's always been, but this takes the cake, and Ja'far can't remember a time he's wanted to strangle the man more. Putting Yamuraiha to the task of constantly prodding at him is one thing, though Ja'far knows it's moot point. The woman only comes away tired and frustrated, and Sinbad a dozen times more so, and Ja'far is _tired_ of hearing about how if he'd simply said something sooner, this would all have been resolved. 

 

The fact of the matter is that Sinbad doesn't want to think about how well Ja'far knows his own body, and he _knows_ the signs of something that isn't simply _resolvable._ Healers can only do so much, after all. 

 

"I am going to _work_. If you won't let me do it at my desk, then bring my work in here." Ja'far draws himself up as tall as he can, eyes narrowed. "I'm not an invalid, I'm still fully capable of _functioning_." 

 

“Men who are fully capable of functioning don’t have seizures instead of dancing,” Sinbad answers calmly, looking down at Ja’far. “And if you don’t stay in that bed, _resting_ , I won’t simply keep your paperwork from you, I’ll tie you down.” Golden eyes narrow. “And you _won’t_ escape.”

 

"They aren't exactly a common thing!" _Far more common than they used to be_. "What do you expect me to do all day, sit and stare at your ceiling?"

 

“If that’s what it takes!” Sinbad folds his arms, beginning a silent countdown to fulfilling his threat. “The truth is, you don’t know if rest will help, because you never _do_ rest.”

 

"Not doing my work gives me _hives_ ," Ja'far flatly reminds him, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "Besides, who else is going to work this month's budget? If you make me sit in bed all day, I'll have another seizure from the stress of being _idle._ " 

 

“Don’t threaten me with those,” Sinbad says quietly, voice very serious. “Sit down. I’ll give you your work, and you can have it as long as you stay in bed, taking care of yourself. This. Is not. Optional.”

 

Perhaps that _was_ a bit too far of a threat. Ja'far's head jerks in a stiff nod, and he turns around, dropping himself back onto the edge of the bed. "Look. I'm sitting. Are you happy now?" 

 

“Getting happier. Lie down.” The thought of more of those seizures, of watching helplessly as Ja’far’s body tears itself apart from the inside, is more than Sinbad can handle. He sits on the bed, taking a deep breath. “You’ve had….a long time to deal with this. Don’t expect me to be good at it right away.”

 

"I can't _write_ lying down," Ja'far crossly retorts, but he wavers at the tone of Sinbad's voice, slowly toeing off his shoes as he falls back with a huff of breath. "This is why I didn't want you to know. I knew you'd be like this." 

 

“What, frightened?” Sinbad asks, giving a tight smile. “You were right. Look, I’ll give you plenty of pillows, you can sit back on them and I’ll get you a tray to write on and everything.”

 

Ja'far briefly bites the inside of his cheek, but he remains laying down all the same, no matter the flicker of vague irritation. "If you hadn't gone prodding," he quietly replies, "we could have actually _enjoyed_ ourselves as we always have, rather than having you stress over it all needlessly."

 

Sinbad scoots closer, unwilling to waste even a second. “How do you think that would have made me feel after? Never knowing if there was something I could have done that could have saved you? Never mind that there won’t be an after, because I _will_ find something.” He wraps an arm around Ja’far--has he always been so much smaller?

 

"… I wasn't planning on letting you know even then," Ja'far admits, heaving a sigh as he slowly lets an arm drape about Sinbad's back, fingers curling up into his ponytail. "One way or another, me simply dying would have been a lot easier for you to swallow, I think. Really, Sin, sometimes there are things you aren't meant to fix." 

 

“So you say now.” Sinbad leans over, giving Ja’far’s forehead a kiss. “I think I would have figured it out when you stopped doing your paperwork, you know. Or when you--” His throat closes up, and he blinks rapidly. “I wouldn’t have been prepared.”

 

"I wasn't going to let it get to that point, either." Ja'far's expression twists wry. "I make an awful invalid. I would rather be dead than a drooling mess in bed any day, and when you have a reaction like that just now, it makes me even more sure not to let it happen."

 

“You wouldn’t have been an invalid forever,” Sinbad says softly. “You’d have just let me find you on the floor some cold morning? Or drop off during the soup at supper?”

 

Ja'far slowly shrugs. "Better than watching me like this, don't you think?" 

 

“And what kind of a choice is that?” Sinbad mutters, tightening his arm more than is comfortable. “Is this an illness your family had? You seem….so _sure_.”

 

"Sinbad." Ja'far gives an idle push agains the other man's chest, though it's far from any real protest at how tightly he's being held. "You realize I was _trained_ to know my own body extremely well, especially when it's close to death? Why does it come as such a surprise to you that I _know?_ "

 

“Because you’ve always beaten it before.” Sinbad exhales heavily. “And you’ve been _wrong_ before, about a great many things. I’m going to prove to you that this is one of them. Just believe in me a little longer.”

 

"… You're an idiot," is the man's simple response as he sags back, eyes tiredly shutting. "If Yamuraiha can't find anything, you should know by now that there _isn't_ anything. Now go and get me my paperwork."

 

Sinbad kisses the top of Ja’far’s head. “Fine. Paperwork, and--which tea, the strong one or the pretty one with the flowers?”

 

"Strong one. _Don't_ add anything to it, I like it when it's bitter," Ja'far immediately adds, frowning as he opens his eyes. "And do me a favor," he continues more quietly, "and stop looking like you're going to cry all the time. It's hardly becoming of a king." 

 

Sinbad gives him a brief, entirely too-serious smile. “I’ll work on it.” Then he shuts the door, and strides quickly down the hall for tea. 

 

If Ja’far only has a month, there’s not a second of it Sinbad wants to waste.

 

~~

 

Judal hates not being paid attention to.

 

That's the reason he comes to Sindria in the first place. Sinbad _never_ ignores him, even on the busiest days and with that annoyed freckled advisor of his staring him down. He isn't like Kouen, or even Koumei and Kouha nowadays, all of which brush him aside unless they _need_ something.

 

With that in mind, he's duly surprised when Sinbad doesn't greet him with a smile the second he pops through his bedroom window. 

 

The room is silent instead, with Ja'far dozing in his bed, surrounded by a pile of scrolls. Judal's eyebrows raise, but he shrugs, dismissing it and drifting from the room, glancing about the halls with a frown that's closer to a pout than anything. Really, he came all this way--he deserves _something_ for his trouble. 

 

Pot of tea in one hand, twenty scrolls tucked under the other arm, a teacup somehow juggled in a hand, Sinbad’s strides are long as he makes his way back to his bedroom, stopping short to find Judal hovering in the hallway. His shoulders sag, and all he can manage is a short, flat, “Not now, Judal,” before trying to stride past him. Judal’s not a child. He’ll get over it.

 

Judal _gapes_. 

 

It's _worse_ than how Kouen greets him sometimes by far, and he sort of lists out of the way on principle, staring at Sinbad's back for a moment before floating after him and grabbing hold of his ponytail. "What do you mean, _not now?_ I flew all this way just to see you!"

 

Somehow, Sinbad manages not to spill the tea, though a bit drips onto his hand, just this side of boiling. Sinbad grits his teeth, growling, “Not _now_ , Judal! This is _important_ , get out of my way or _I will move you._ ”

 

It's the sharpness in Sinbad's tone more than anything else that makes Judal blink, his hand dropping away with a huff. "Geez, _what?_ If that's for Freckles, he's passed out, anyway. I didn't know you were his personal _slave_."

 

Some of the tension Sinbad’s been carrying through the previous night bleeds through, and a muscle twitches in his jaw. “Not-- _now_ \--” If this is what he’s going to be like for the next month, it’s a _mess_. All he can think of is all the times Ja’far had warned him about Judal, tended his wounds after, and how Ja’far won’t be _there_ \--

 

 _Passed out,_ Judal had said. The words hit him, and _what if the healer was wrong, what if it was hours instead of a month, Mother went without warning_ \--

 

Sinbad takes off, only a few doors away, and opens the door as fast as he can without dropping everything, shoulders sagging when he sees that Ja’far’s chest still moves.

 

"The hell is wrong with you?" Judal grumbles, flopping against Sinbad's back lightly and draping his arms over his shoulders from behind. "You're acting really weird. Look, just leave this stuff here and play with me. Freckles is sleeping, he won't mind, I bet." 

 

“He’s dying.” Sinbad’s voice is quiet, exhausted, and he realizes he hasn’t slept for at least two days. He sets the teapot carefully down, the scrolls on the bed next to Ja’far, and looks back at Judal with everything he’s been afraid to show Ja’far in his eyes. “Just...I can’t play with you right now. He needs me.”

 

Judal's head tilts, honest surprise reflecting over his face as he looks from Sinbad and then back to the sleeping man. "… Doesn't _look_ like he's dying," the Magi murmurs, but he rocks back all the same, settling down onto the ground properly and making another grab for Sinbad's hands now that they're free. "He's sleeping. C'mon, you look reeeeally bad. I could make you feel better, I bet."

 

Sinbad bats Judal’s hands away, pouring a cup of tea and removing the leaves so it doesn’t oversteep. “Healer says he is. Unless you’re going to be useful, let me be for right now. I’m not in the mood anyway.”

 

Lower lip jutting in a pout, Judal wavers a moment longer before floating up again, clinging right back to Sinbad's neck. "I can be useful," he suddenly settles upon. Freckles might be less annoying in this situation, more _useful_ , too, and that's a new one when  Ja'far has only ever been something in his way. "Healers are dumb at best, you know."

 

“I know. They let more people die than they save.” Sinbad looks up at Judal, not pushing him away this time. “You know a real healer? Someone who could help, not just tell him to drink a lot of tea and try to last a month?”

 

"Weeell, that depends. Are you gonna play with me?" Judal props his chin atop the edge of Sinbad's shoulder, staring at him with lidded eyes. Oddly enough, Sinbad _does_ look kind of pathetic. Judal can't remember a time he's seen Sinbad look so honestly upset about something, and that _irks_ him. "What would you do if I said I _did_ know someone?" 

 

It’s hard to remember how to play Judal’s games when Sinbad’s so _worried_. He tries, reminding himself that he’s hardly being any use to Ja’far this way, and tugs on the end of Judal’s braid. “What did you have in mind?”

 

He hadn't thought that far ahead, but the answer is still a no-brainer. "Would you let me choose you? Assuming I could reeeeally fix him."

 

Sinbad’s breath catches in his throat. Those odd mad eyes are so hard to decipher, but...after all, reality is just a tool in Judal’s hands, isn’t it? Something like this illness would be child’s play, _certainly_ \--

 

_Yunan didn’t save Mother. Maybe he could have. Maybe that’s not how magic works. Maybe it gives you nothing for free._

 

But really, he’d never given Yunan anything back.

 

He looks down, at the soft silver strands strewn over the pillow. He’d asked jokingly, several times, whether Ja’far’s hair would turn brown or black as he aged, the reverse of a normal person’s life cycle. 

 

The thought that he’ll never get an answer is simply unacceptable.

 

“Yes.”

 

Judal pauses, unable to stop the slow whistle from escaping. "That was _fast_." He's not sure if he should be excited or annoyed, especially after all the times he's asked before and gotten absolutely _nothing_. He hums, untangling his arms as he drifts back, dropping back onto his feet. "There aren't any take-backs, you know. If you _really_ let me choose you, you can't change your mind tomorrow."

 

“I said _if_. You can’t be trying to trick me either,” Sinbad warns. “No saving him today to kill him tomorrow, no curing one disease but giving him another.” He hesitates, then reaches out a hand, cupping Judal’s face. “Maybe I was just waiting for a reason.”

 

Ah. That's kind of nice. 

 

Judal frowns, leaning his head into Sinbad's hand as his eyes slide over to the bed to look at Ja'far. "Then I guess I'll have a look at him. I'm a Magi, it's not like I can't fix _everything_ , after all." 

 

Despite Sinbad’s instincts shrieking at him that this is a Bad Idea, a look at Ja’far’s face, and he can only nod. _You said you’d stay with me until the end, old friend. I’m just making certain that end is a long way away, for both of us. We have a deal._ “I thought healers had to have great knowledge of the human body in order to fix it.”

 

Judal snorts, giving Sinbad an annoyed look as he drifts away. "What, and you think I don't? My specialty is _water_ , after all. That's what a lot of healing art is derived from, you know, and my teachers taught me _all_ the best stuff." 

 

As it happens, though, the closer he drifts to the bed, the more Ja'far twitches, and he barely gets within a foot of it before a blade sharply flies out, raking along the side of his face. A snarl, and Judal reflexively grabs for his wand in his flare of temper, with Ja'far a hissing ball within a pile of scrolls, eyes sharp and narrowed. 

 

"He's not touching me," Ja'far flatly says, gaze darting over to Sinbad briefly. "Sin, use some common sense, this _thing_ hates me." 

 

"He cut my _face!_ Sinbad, do you see?! Look how mean he is to me!" 

 

The deal isn’t even complete yet, and Sinbad already has a headache. His eye twitches, and he wraps an arm around Judal’s waist, pulling him back. “Ja’far, _please_ , he’s a _Magi_ , he can fix whatever’s wrong with you!”

 

"Just because he has limitless magoi doesn't mean he has a _brain_ ," Ja'far lowly snaps, his eyes narrowing. "He can't even read, do you really think he knows the difference between a kidney and my _stomach?_ " 

 

"I can so read! I read magic books all the _time_ \--"

 

"Those are in a different language _entirely!_ " A growl, and Ja'far throws a hand out in exasperation. "And listen to yourself, wanting to let him _choose you?_ You'd throw yourself away into Al-Sarmen for the sake of _me?_ Think for a damned second!"

 

“I’m _not_ going to lose you!” Sinbad hisses, and grabs Ja’far’s wrists, pinning them down to the bed as he looks at Judal. “Put him to sleep.” He doesn’t bother telling himself that Ja’far will thank him later. He doesn’t need the comfort of the lie, so long as Ja’far’s alive to hate him.

 

Ja'far's eyes flash, and it's with an abrupt twist and shove that he's suddenly free, out of the bed, and with a considerable amount of distance between himself and Sinbad. Far closer is the door, and Judal watches with a sort of morbid fascination. "I don't want him touching me! And it isn't even about me--you have no idea what he might do to _you_ afterwards!" 

 

“I can take that risk myself!” Sinbad calls, giving chase. “You can’t _run_ , you’re dying, get back here and collapse! Of all the times--”

 

"Will you _listen_ to yourself?!" Ja'far snaps as he darts down the hall, and damn, but he doesn't want to admit it, but this does take a bit more effort than usual. He skids around a corner, sparing a hasty glance over his shoulder to make sure he's lost Sinbad somewhat--

 

And promptly runs directly into Masrur's chest. 

 

“Masrur!” Sinbad shouts, long legs carrying him quickly. “Grab Ja’far!”

 

“Understood.” Huge arms come around Ja’far, holding him close, gently against that massive chest.

 

"Let me go, Masrur, right now!" Never mind that Masrur has been avoiding him for the past two days, he should still _listen._

 

“Understood.” Masrur’s arms relax, and Sinbad curses _everything_.

 

“Grab him!”

 

“Understood.”

 

"I said let me go!" Ja'far insistently orders.

 

“Understood.”

 

“Don’t let him go!”

 

“Understood.”

 

At least this time, Sinbad has a chance to _catch_ _up_ , and before Ja’far can say anything else, wraps his hand over the man’s mouth. “I’m trying to fix him,” he explains urgently to Masrur. “If you want him to live until summer, bring him back to my room, right now.”

 

Masrur hesitates, picking Ja’far up by the upper arms, holding him so they’re face to face. “Is that true?”

 

"He's _trying_ ," Ja'far angrily spits out, "to make a deal with the _devil_ to do it! He's trying to let Judal choose him in return for 'fixing' me, and you _know_ how Judal hates me, Masrur! There's no guarantee for it, and Sinbad will be signing himself away to Al-Sarmen!" He gives a furious wiggle and kick. "Now put me down!"

 

Judal, a short distance down the hallway, can't help but watch, _far_ too amused. Yeah, this is a lot better than being at the Imperial Palace, if only for entertainment value.

 

Masrur gives Sinbad a worried look. “You found the devil?”

 

“No. He’s--” Sinbad bites his tongue. “And I’m not selling my soul. Just making an arrangement, which won’t even _work_ unless he’s fixed.” He looks up, meeting Masrur’s eyes, such a similar color, but so different from Judal’s. “Trust me. Please.”

 

Masrur hasn’t paid much attention to Ja’far’s kicking before, and he doesn’t now. “Understood.”

 

"Masrur, damn it all, _listen_ to me--"

 

"If you two want to hold him down, I can put him to sleep," Judal cheerfully butts in, twirling his wand between two fingers. In a way, this will be so _satisfying._  

 

Masrur wraps an arm around Ja’far’s upper body, another around his thighs. “He’s still. Do it.”

 

"I am going to give you _so much work_ to do later, you little--"

 

The words die with a simple wave of Judal's wand, and in an instant, Ja'far is slack and dozing, dangling in Masrur's arms without a single protest to be had from his sleeping form. 

 

Now that he’s unconscious, Masrur is twice as careful about carrying Ja’far back to Sinbad’s bed, standing still and brooding over him. 

 

Sinbad looks at him, thanking all the gods for Masrur, and over to Judal. “You know my deal.”

 

"Yeah, yeah, I already promised, didn't I?" Judal can't help but be giddy, even before he's had a proper look at the man sprawled back over Sinbad's bed. "Gimme some time to look at him and I'll have him as good as new in no time, so don't make that weird stressed out face anymore." _Just make good faces at me, after I've done something you apparently want me to do so badly._

 

Sinbad’s expression softens. “I’m sorry. You did, I--I’m very grateful to you.” He looks at Judal, then down at Ja’far. “My country and I are in your hands.”

 

~~

 

With a spell cast by Judal, Ja'far expects to have nightmares.

 

Instead, he dreams, and vividly. Odd, because he tends to not remember anything he dreams of these days--too light a sleeper, perhaps, and whatever the reason, he's not sure he'd want to recall them. Dreams tend to be things of the past in his mind, odd memories scattered about and making him wake to soreness and an aching pangs of what _isn't_ anymore, especially as the months and years have worn on and the inevitable has reared its head a dozen times over. 

 

This time, he dreams of the past, and it's less stressful, more soothing, no matter if it's of Sinbad when he was young, _stupid_ and brash and running around without care, without a _plan_ , only seeking a thrill for a day or an adventure for a week. Sometimes, Ja'far can't recall exactly why he ever followed along at this man's heels, but in this dream, he _can_ \--the sincerity in those words, the sheer strength and warmth behind everything that he did and has done since then--

 

_I'll follow you until the end._

 

It's not his fault, really, that the end is to come far sooner than either of them hoped. 

 

Slowly, Ja'far stirs, cracking his eyes open to a world that seems oddly too-bright, with far too much clarity, and he groans, rolling onto his side to press his face into a pillow. For once, sleep is a far better decision, even if he wakes to his head _not_ pounding for the first time in ages. 

 

Sinbad watches, and waits. 

 

He doesn’t _feel_ any different, no matter what deal is almost certainly now in place, and he find himself wishing he felt worse about the whole thing. It’s far from the first time he’s offered up his life in place of one of his men, and this time no one even wants him to die. There will be a way, he’s sure, to make this an advantage, or at least negate the ill effects. Maybe. And if not….

 

Ja’far stirs in the bed, and it’s worth it, all of it’s worth it.

 

Eventually, Ja'far flops over another few times, making his way onto his back once more and blinking blearily up at the ceiling. His eyes slide sideways, Sinbad's presence _always_ something he's aware of, even if he's too-focused on how his body feels _strange_ \--not aching in odd places for once, and feeling weirdly light. "I'm angry with you." 

 

“I know.” Sinbad’s heart aches with the _what-if_ as he looks down at Ja’far, and knows there could have been no other decision. “I’m just glad you’re alive to be angry with me.”

 

"I'm angry enough with you that I don't want to talk to you." Ja'far's jaw clenches, and he shuts his eyes, sinking back into the bed. It's hard to deny that seeing the relief on Sinbad's face isn't nice. That isn't the point, though. The _point_ is what brought it into being. "What did he do to me? It doesn't feel all… _right_." 

 

Sinbad reaches out to feel the warmth of Ja’far’s skin, touching his forehead before Ja’far can twitch away from him. “He said he purged your body of everything that was killing it. Ah, and that you might be hungry and thirsty, you….got a bit messy.” That had been an experience, but at least Judal had warned them.

 

"… Food would be good," Ja'far begrudgingly allows, turning over the concept of _purged_ and more annoyed by the minute. That could be a dozen things, really. He lifts his hand, brushing Sinbad's away. "And you actually _believe him?_ Sinbad, this could all be a temporary thing. He's a Magi, he can easily make things look however he wants, and all for the sake of dragging _you_ down."

 

“I’m not going anywhere.” Sinbad, prepared for Ja’far’s awakening, brings up a tray of stuffed bread rolls and tea, setting it by Ja’far. “He’s going to find that being my Magi entails a lot less playtime and a lot more improvement for the lives of my citizens. I’ll work on handling him, you just work on getting better.”

 

"Will you listen to yourself?" Ja'far snaps, even as he shoves himself up onto his elbows, propping up a pillow behind himself with a sigh. "You've _never_ been able to 'handle' Judal. What makes you think you can do it now? I--" He stops short, staring at the bread in his hand after taking a bite out of it. Well, that… was unexpected

 

“What? Has it gone bad? I swear it’s only been out for an hour, the cooks _swore_ that it was good enough that even you’d be able to taste something--”

 

"That's the weird part," he interrupts, frowning as he turns it over in his hand. "I can actually _taste it._ "

 

“Oh?” Sinbad looks from Ja’far to down at the bread roll, thinking. “Ah, good? Hey, maybe that means it was this disease that took taste from you, all those years ago!’

 

"Wrong." Something panicky twists in his stomach. "It was my exposure to poison over the years." 

 

“Maybe you were wrong. The disease was taking your senses, wasn’t it?” Sinbad sighs, trying to take Ja’far’s hand. “Even if it wasn’t, really, how many times have people tried to poison you in earnest? None, that I know of, since the founding of Sindria.”

 

"That's not the point!" Ja'far _tries_ not to let his voice get too shrill, but it's _difficult_. Sinbad's right, in theory, but the fact stands that if he _needs_ to run off and play the role of assassin, he's now severely hindered without decades of immunity built up. He sucks in a sharp breath, jerking his hand away. "So you've signed yourself away to Judal, and he's left me a dozen times more killable. _Fantastic_." Eating, without the added bonus of knowing whatever is in it won't kill him, makes his stomach churn anew, and Ja'far pushes the tray away. 

 

“You were _always_ killable,” Sinbad says, more softy than he’d intended. “And I’d rather have you alive and vital than dead in your twenties because I was squeamish about what I’d have to do.” He stands, brushing off his lap. “Try to get some more rest. You’ll need plenty.”

 

Ja'far's response is a dark, silent glare before he simply curls up, presenting Sinbad with the slim line of his back rather than any actual reply.

 

~~

 

Sinbad tries not to feel like a betrayer. 

 

It would probably work a bit better if the thought in his mind weren’t so clear. _He’s angry because what you betrayed is yourself._

 

Ah, that’s not a constructive thought. Sinbad wanders the halls for a moment before collapsing down into a chair, immediately falling asleep the way he hasn’t in days, head falling down to his shoulder.

 

Judal thought it would be more _exciting_ , finally having Sinbad agree to be his king.

 

He _thought_ he'd be spoiled and pampered immediately, doted on like Sinbad always had promised he would be, if he left Al-Sarmen and came to live within Sindria as his Magi. Instead, it's _boring_ , with even the kitchens a little hesitant at the sight of him, and Judal ends up wandering off, scowling, munching on a peach that isn't _any_ where near as good as something from Kou, and trying not to think about the weird, twitchy little ache of his magoi and rukh altogether. 

 

He finds Sinbad soon enough, though the man looks so honestly exhausted that Judal resigns himself to not waking him-- _yet_. Maybe Sinbad will appreciate that. Maybe he'll get _actually_ spoiled and treated nicely for that, even though he already should be, after all the work he's done. 

 

Judal settles down at his feet, leaning his cheek against Sinbad's knee, and dozes himself. 

 

When he wakes a few hours later, sprawled out and with a crick in his neck, Sinbad _still_ isn't awake, and Judal's quite done with waiting. He huffs, slowly climbing his way up into the king's lap, nudging his face into his neck and catching one golden hoop earring to slowly _tug._

 

"Hey, stupid king. Wake uuup." 

 

There are worse ways to wake up, Sinbad decides, than by having Judal on his lap. His mouth curls into a slow smile, and he wraps his arms lazily around Judal’s waist, tugging him close. “Sorry. Long day. I’ll spoil you hard tomorrow, just like I always promised.” He leans down, catching Judal’s lips in a slow kiss, drinking in the warmth and the spice of him, letting it burn away some of the shaky cold that’s been trying to take him over since Ja’far had collapsed in his arms.

 

Judal is warm, and young, and _vibrant_ , and Sinbad grabs onto it, and doesn’t want to let it go.

 

That's a _lot_ better.

 

Judal sighs, eyes lidding as he wriggles closer, draping his arms around Sinbad's shoulders as he nibbles at the other man's lower lip, tugging lazily on it. "You better," he mumbles. "Your peaches here suck, so I don't even have that to tide me over." 

 

“I’ll get better ones,” Sinbad promises against Judal’s lips, hands sliding up over his back, down to cup and squeeze his ass. “You and I can take a journey, just the two of us, and pick them from any garden in the world.”

 

"Really good," Judal rumbles in approval, sighing as he squirms in Sinbad's lap, fingers pawing at the front of his robes. "But not right now. I'm tired, too, that took a _lot_ of rukh and I just wanna roll around with you."

 

As those words leave his mouth, none other than Ja'far stalks his way down the hallway, the glare he fixes upon Sinbad a decidedly menacing one. 

 

“Mm, no, the two of us can rest as much as you…”

 

Sinbad’s words trail off, eyes fixed on Ja’far, and his expression melts from something lascivious to something pathetic. “Ja’far, wait, are you sure you should be up and out of bed yet?”

 

Ja'far snorts, continuing his stalk as his arms fold into his robes. "I'm perfectly fine, good as new and helpless as a baby, _your Magi_ saw to that. Please, don't stop on my behalf."

 

Judal makes a face, sticking out his tongue. "Cranky. Ungrateful, too."

 

“You’re not helpless as a _baby_ , just a regular human,” Sinbad mutters, lifting Judal off his lap as he trails after Ja’far weakly. “He was _helping_ you, aren’t you the slightest bit happy that you’ll get to live instead of dying pathetically?”

 

Judal sits, staring in open-mouthed shock as he's so thoroughly left behind and _forgotten_ while Sinbad trails at Ja'far's heels like a kicked puppy. Ja'far, for his part, seems entirely unmoved. 

 

"Living is all well and good, but if I'm _living_ because my king has thrown himself to that _thing's_ influence, then I'm not so sure what the point is!" Ja'far snaps back, tossing another glare over his shoulder before whipping his head back around. "What were you _thinking?_ "

 

“You always see the worst in him! He saved your life! Maybe you could think that’s a sign that I’ve been right about him all along!” Sinbad reaches out to catch Ja’far’s elbow. “Just _listen_ to me, I don’t want to run this country without you!”

 

"Or _maybe_ , he used a method to save me that would render my previous skill set partially useless to make it easier for me to _kill_ , and make it easier to control you in the end," Ja'far hisses out, yanking his arm away as he stops, whirling to face Sinbad and jabbing a finger firmly into his chest. "How many times have I told you not to give your live for someone else? This is essentially what you've done!"

 

“And what about what you’ve done?” Sinbad demands, looking down over Ja’far. “For all the times you told me to think about my own mortality, and what would follow my death, you would have left me--what? No assassin, no tax official, no scribe, no organizer, no best friend? You would have left me helpless and defenseless as a baby!”

 

"You," Ja'far stiffly retorts, "have dozens of other people that love and help you. You would have hardly been alone." 

 

“But--”

 

_But none of them are you._

 

Sinbad folds his arms, glaring down at the smaller man, heart still thudding that Ja’far is _alive_ , and he tells it firmly to shut up, Ja’far is _angry_. “We’re wasting time. You might as well put your newfound vitality to work. Think of areas in Sindria that could benefit from the powers of a Magi, now that I’ve finally made my choice.”

 

"What would you have thought if Al-Sarmen came to me and offered to heal me like this, in exchange for my working for them again?" Perhaps it's hardly a fair comparison, but Ja'far is angry, and as far as he's concerned, Judal is _Al-Sarmen_. "Would you have expected me to to take such an offer?" 

 

That makes Sinbad flinch, but the expression passes from his face. “You never would have. But I don’t expect you to fight for your own life. For better or worse, you’re more precious to me than you are to yourself!”

 

"The fact that you value _me_ over your own well-being isn't something I appreciate," Ja'far softly replies, and he turns, his arms folding up once more. "I'm going to work."

 

Sinbad almost lets him go. But the lump in his chest is too much, and he reaches out, grabbing Ja’far by the shoulder and spinning him around. “I swear to you,” he says, low and serious, “I won’t become their plaything. Believe in me. Just a little longer.”

 

Ja'far sucks in a slow breath, biting down on his lower lip briefly as he lifts a hand, resting it over Sinbad's momentarily before slowly pushing it away. "I know you won't become their plaything. I'm not going to _let you_." 

 

Sinbad nods slowly. “I’ll trust you.” He lets his hand fall, letting out a deep exhale. “Go on. I’m sure you have lots of work to catch up on.”

 

"I don't even want to think about it." Ja'far settles one last, lingering _look_ upon Sinbad before whirling on his heel and briskly stepping away. Of all the _messes_ Sinbad has gotten himself into before, this has to take the cake--if only because of the reasons behind it. 

 

Sinbad really doesn’t want to turn back and grovel to Judal, though he knows it’s something like inevitable. Still, there are prices to pay, and he turns back, shrugging his shoulders. “He’ll come around. Once he sees what I see in you.”

 

Judal settles for glowering from where he's rolled himself to the floor. "Why did I save him again? He's such a jerk, he's not even _grateful_ at all."

 

Sinbad sinks down to the floor, stretching out long legs next to Judal. “He’s always like that. He doesn’t like it when people, I don’t know, do things for him.”

 

"I didn't _mean_ to make him all… poisonable again," Judal grumps, and in short order, he flops himself forward, stretching out over Sinbad's lap with his feet kicking in the air. "It's _hard_ to heal with the rukh."

 

“Honestly,” Sinbad says quietly, gathering Judal close, “I’m glad you did. I’ve always been afraid of what that stuff would do to him in the end. Besides, now he can’t complain that he doesn’t eat because it all tastes the same to him. Just don’t poison him, all right?”

 

"I wasn't gonna poison him, either." Judal twists around in Sinbad's hold, nudging his face into the other man's chest. "… You would've let me choose you either way, right?" he presses. "Not just because of him?" 

 

“Definitely,” Sinbad says, though the true answer is more like _probably_. “I was just waiting for you to grow up a bit first.” He leans down, nibbling on the shell of an ear. “You know, so you could see all the king candidates and _know_ I was the best one for the world.”

 

"You're better than Kouen, for sure," the Magi sighs out, squirming his way up with a low, content sound. "He's so _busy_ , and only talks to Hakuei these days, and he doesn't have anywhere near as many dungeons as you, besides." 

 

“Mmm, that’s the fate of a man who wants to take a wife,” Sinbad says dismissively. “They stop paying attention to the things that are _important_.” He drags a hand down Judal’s back, then up again. “Mm, are you sure you wouldn’t rather do this in my bed?”

 

"… You're gonna fall asleep when you put it in," Judal matter-of-factly deduces, narrowing his eyes at him. "Like that time you were really drunk and we were both being worms." 

 

Sinbad opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “You’re probably right,” he admits. “I haven’t slept properly in five days. How about you come cuddle up with me and kick me all night, and I’ll put it in when I wake up?”

 

Judal perks up at that, nodding as he fastens his arms tightly to Sinbad's neck. "Good. Really good. I want you to carry me to the bedroom, though."

 

Getting up that way is something tricky, but Sinbad manages, hefting Judal into his arms and carrying him to the bedroom, feeling something like a cat’s climbing post.

 

Then he hits the bed, and sleep runs him over like a giant’s foot, and he stops feeling anything at all.

 

~~

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

If there's one thing that Judal has done well, it's made it so he sleeps better than ever.

 

The aches and pains that have long become something Ja'far is accustomed to are gone, leaving him with a surprising freshness when he wakes. It would make his day brighter and better if not for the realization that it comes with a price--vulnerability that he hasn't had since he was a child, something that makes him wary no matter how Sinbad says it simply makes him _human_. 

 

Sinbad, of course, it something else entirely. 

 

The situation the man has put himself in makes Ja'far grind his teeth, and after avoiding him for a solid three days, thinking desperately about how to get him _out_ from underneath Judal's hold, Ja'far simply lets the idea stew instead, realizing well that it's difficult to be wholly angry with his king even if he does want to firmly strangle him. 

 

It doesn't stop him from avoiding him still, however. There's a chain of it, actually; Masrur avoiding him, refusing to look him in the eye, and Ja'far doing the same to Sinbad, to the point that he excuses himself in the evening with his work, packing up to work in his room instead with dim candles and scrolls spread about his bed, taking up most of the room upon it. This way, at least, he isn't potentially interrupted, and he can pause to think, sometimes, about his own mistakes and how Sinbad for once has cleaned them up with such a _price_. 

 

Sinbad should leave Ja’far alone, he knows.     It’s just hard when that’s something he’s never done. Ja’far’s always been one to stew on things, to turn them over again and again in his mind, to a point far beyond overthinking, and sometimes he needs someone to snap him out of it.      

 

So no matter that it’s obviously, certainly for the best for everyone involved, Sinbad wriggles out of bed without waking Judal, for the first time in days deliberately seeking out Ja’far’s company—and this time, not taking no for an answer.    

 

 He stalks Ja’far to his office (empty) then to his other likely haunts, finally finding a soft glow coming from under the door of his bedroom, of all places. Girding his loins for a battle he doesn’t want, Sinbad opens the door. “Please talk to me.”  

 

Ja'far's made a nice enough nest of his bed, sprawled out on his stomach amongst the pile of parchment and a fresh bottle of ink, and he lifts his head from his chin, eyebrows raising slowly at the sight in his doorway. "About, exactly?" Ah, from the look on Sinbad's face, he's not going away any time soon. 

 

  “In general.” Ah, Ja’far has little splotches of ink on him, unaccustomed as he must be to working this way, and Sinbad frowns. “Are your hips all right like that? You usually complain after a few minutes sitting out of your chair.”  

 

"… Astonishingly," Ja'far admits, sighing as he pushes himself up slowly, expecting to have to crack his back and finding that's hardly the case. "It seems Judal fixed a few more things, in the process of everything. Stop standing there, though, you're making my knees hurt looking at you."

 

  Sinbad kneels, thinking with a wince that he should ask Judal to give him a once-over too. “This better? I…I want you to start talking to me again.”  

 

A sigh, and Ja'far sits up entirely, pushing aside a pile of finished scrolls. "Sit on the bed. And I'm talking to you right now."

 

  “I mean every day. And not under duress.” Sinbad’s brow creases, even as he does as Ja’far says. “It’s like you wanted me to let you die. You should have known I’d do anything.”  

 

Ja'far sucks in a slow breath, pushing down his irritation. "It was fine for you to do everything _reasonable_. What you did was the pinnacle of _un_ reasonable."

 

  “Sindria is still here,” Sinbad points out. “I’m still my own man. You’re alive, and more well than you’ve been in ages. And the only thing Judal’s requested of me so far is a peach.”  

 

"And how long is that going to last, exactly? Sin, don't be an _idiot_ ," Ja'far sighs in frustration. "He's still with Al-Sarmen. That hasn't changed, no matter how he bats his eyelashes at you." 

 

“You’re forgetting,” Sinbad points out, grabbing for Ja’far’s wrist and hauling him up the bed, “that he’s a wild, willful, capricious boy. He’ll do what pleases him. He isn’t exactly a model employee, of Al-Sarmen or anyone.”

 

"And if he decides one day that you aren't making him happy?" Ja'far presses, scowling as he's pulled up, but protesting no more than that. "A repeat of Partevia, perhaps?" 

 

  “Then this time,” Sinbad says gently, “we know exactly what he’s capable of, and he’d be destroying his own home as well. It would behoove us to make him love this place, don’t you think?”  

 

"Sinbad, he's _insane_." 

 

  Sinbad shrugs. “Are the insane incapable of love? All I’m saying is, let’s not assume he’s going to kill us all. Prepare for it, sure, but in the meantime, at least you can sit on the floor again, eh?”  

 

"… I suppose," Ja'far begrudgingly allows, his head dropping forward a bit with a long, defeated sigh. "I'm still angry with you."

 

  “But you’re alive to be angry with me.” Sinbad takes Ja’far’s head in his hands, tilting it up to brush a soft kiss over his lips. “You cannot fathom how infinitely I prefer this to the alternative.”  

 

There's another argument on the tip of his tongue--at least a hundred of them, if he's counting more precisely, but Sinbad is good at making him forget them. The warmth of his lips against his own, even the gentle splay of the man's fingers against the back of his head… Ja'far can only sigh again, his eyes lidding as he tips his head forward, nose brushing against Sinbad's. "I'm glad I can still stay with you." 

 

  Sinbad smiles, and kisses Ja’far again, hands threading into his moonlight hair, sucking softly on his lip before letting them part. “You have your senses back,” he notes, breathing slightly heavy. “Does that make any difference?”  

 

"I hadn't lost _so_ many, you know," Ja'far mumbles, but he shivers nonetheless, sliding just a bit closer. Whether he wants to admit it or not, Sinbad's touch _does_ make his skin that much hotter, makes his breath that much faster--or maybe it's just because it's been some time, and there _is_ the sort of giddy realization that he isn't going to die any time soon on his mind, an indulgence of thought that he hasn't quite allowed himself to accept yet. 

 

  “Mmm, no?” Sinbad teases, brushing a thumb over Ja’far’s cheek, feeling the warmth there, brushing over his freckles, and the thought that he’d almost lost that forever makes him appreciate everything all the more. “Tell me, then,” he murmurs, tugging Ja’far closer, “how do I taste now?”  

 

"Wine," is the immediate, rumbling murmur, and Ja'far's next exhale is a little shakier as the warmth of Sinbad's body seems to sink into him. He reaches a hand out, slowly spreading his fingers as they slide over Sinbad's side before curling against his back. "You drink too much, I shouldn't be able to taste it that easily."

 

  “I had a glass before coming to see you, to steel my nerves,” Sinbad protests, leaving out the fact that the glass was bottle-shaped and full before he started, empty once he’d left. It was still made of glass, after all. “Besides…that’s only my mouth.” He slides his hand forward, thumb brushing over Ja’far’s lips before slipping inside.  

 

Ja'far sucks in a breath through his nose, his brow a worried little furrow as his tongue flicks, sliding over the tip of Sinbad's thumb as it slides between his lips, just enough for his teeth to gently catch. "You're being obscene," he mutters underneath his breath, looking up through his lashes. 

 

  Sinbad’s laugh is a rumble, breath hitching at the soft scrape of Ja’far’s teeth. “Your tolerance is low. That’s about the least obscene thing I’ve wanted to slide between your lips.”  

 

He flushes hot at that, his head inclining away from Sinbad's hand. "You aren't missing out. I'm hardly any good at _that_ , you know."

 

  “You say that as if I cared whether you were any good at it.” Sinbad leans down, trailing his lips over Ja’far’s neck, pushing him back onto the bed. “Let me show you why it’s good to be alive.”  

 

"You _should_ care." Ja'far flops back nonetheless, tongue flicking out over his parted lips as his hands lift, tangling themselves carefully through Sinbad's hair. "I know why it's good to be alive already. I get to stay with you." 

 

  “You seemed resigned enough to leaving me,” Sinbad says quietly. Despite that, he crawls over Ja’far, laying down on him, letting his weight bear down as he litters kisses all over that pale skin. “Tell me what you would have of me. I’m yours to command.”  

 

"… Resigned doesn't mean I _wanted_ to." Ja'far sinks down underneath Sinbad's weight, dragging his hands down the man's spine, fingers curling with each slide of Sinbad's mouth against his skin. "I've never been very good at commanding you, why should I start now?" 

 

  Sinbad urges Ja’far’s legs apart, sliding between them with a sigh, feeling the warmth and softness of them around his hips. “So lewd,” he murmurs, sliding a hand up one leg. “And so rude, to think of leaving me without any legs like this to touch for the rest of my life.”  

 

"There are plenty of people with legs like this," he protests, no matter if he never particularly looks or touches to know himself. Ja'far huffs, wriggling all the same, his legs hesitantly spreading a bit wider to better cradle Sinbad's hips. Odd, how Sinbad's touch leaves him jumping a bit beneath it, everything almost too-sensitive. Maybe all of the poisons he had taken over the years had more of an effect than he thought. 

 

  “So young, and yet, so wrong.” Sinbad slides his way down, face brushing against the inside of one warm, soft, supple thigh, blinking in slight confusion. “These…used to be a lot worse, didn’t they?” he asks, placing a kiss over the thin line of one familiar scar.  

 

Ja'far feels his skin _twitch_ , and he sucks in a sharp breath, toes curling as he tries to keep from _kicking_. "Y-yes. Can you not… do that?" 

 

  Sinbad raises an eyebrow. “You’ve never minded before. You…you’re trembling, are you all right?”  

 

"Yes, I'm fine!" It comes out a bit too snappishly, and Ja'far lets his head fall back, helplessly staring up at the ceiling. "Everything… it's all too sensitive." God, and he was sort of ticklish before. This is the _worst_.

 

  Sinbad abandons the area between Ja’far’s legs, sliding up to kiss him firmly, resting atop him again. “Then we’ll do whatever doesn’t make you thrash around like an eel. At least, what only makes you do that in a good way. Just tell me when it’s a problem for you.”  

 

"It wasn't _bad_ , just…" Ja'far's skin heats again, and his eyes briefly fall shut as he sags back, soothed, at least, underneath Sinbad's solid weight. "Too much," he adds in a mutter. "You're always that way."

 

  “And yet you agree to share my bed, and have before.” Sinbad kisses him again, then pulls back, brushing the hair from Ja’far’s face, winding a strand of it around his finger. “Unless you’d like to tell me to leave. Maybe I should have you be on top, so you can control just how I touch you.”  

 

"But you feel good like this." The admission makes him huff, and Ja'far's head turns to the side as he bites his lower lip briefly. "It's fine. Really, just… as long as you don't mind me accidentally kicking you or something ridiculous like that." 

 

Sinbad laughs, letting his hands drag down Ja’far’s sides to squeeze his thighs. “You kick me a lot,” he points out, “and hit me, and bite me, and that one time you even spat on me. I haven’t minded yet, have I?”

 

"I was talking _involuntary_ kicks, you like the other kind," Ja'far protests, squirming at the squeeze and glowering up at him. "It's because I'm _ticklish_. That's not an invitation to tickle me more, just so you know." 

 

Sinbad makes sure his hands are firm, and nods seriously. “I will try. And if I make you kick me on accident, I accept that it is my own fault, and none of yours. Now will you please let me make love to you?”

 

Ah. He always has to _say it_ , doesn't he? Ja'far sinks down, his skin flushing anew, but he nods all the same. "If you're going to ask so _nicely_ …"

 

Sinbad doesn’t have much more patience than that, and his hands slide up--ah, it should be _cheating_ , how well he knows Ja’far’s body by now, but all he can be is grateful he can strip the other man so quickly, letting his clothing pool on the floor before his own joins it. “If your body’s been purged,” he murmurs with a wicked grin, sliding up to grab a little pot of aloe, “does that mean you’re a virgin again for me?”

 

Coincidentally, his foot finds its way to Sinbad's face rather quickly. "Don't be disgusting," Ja'far growls, grinding his heel lightly into Sinbad's cheek, though there's less irritation, more wry amusement in his voice. "You'd like that far too much." 

 

Sinbad likes _this_ far too much, pressing his face against Ja’far’s foot, remembering more than one occasion when he’d thought about shoving his cock between them, and….ah. 

 

Not to mention having Ja’far’s leg up like that gives him a great opportunity to slide between those legs, dipping slick fingers against his hole, sliding one inside. “You--sure? You’re so _tight_ \--”

 

Ja'far's lips part, a sound that isn't unlike a squeak choked into his throat as his toes curl, his leg quivering as it slides from Sinbad's face, propping itself more appropriately atop his shoulder. "That's… because it's _been_ awhile," he manages on a groan, fisting a hand into the sheets as he _squirms_ , body twitching tighter still just around that one finger. 

 

“Ah, but you’re always like this,” Sinbad teases, sliding another finger in, stroking and _curling_ to get Ja’far to make those sweet, panicky noises of pleasure again. “Tight and sweet and hot around me...god, the things you make me want to do to you…”

 

"So _do them_ ," Ja'far groans, his thighs twitching open on their own accord as his back arches, a sharp, high huff of breath escaping through his nose. _This_ is always a dozen times more overwhelming than Sinbad just… _using_ him. It's slow, and careful, and doesn't let him have a chance to simply turn his mind off. Instead, he can feel every slick inch of Sinbad's fingers inside of him, the way they curl and press too-perfectly, and Ja'far bites down on his lip as his hips rut down unthinkingly, another noise escaping his throat no matter how he tries to strangle it. "Please…"

 

It’s beyond obscene, to watch Ja’far twitch and squirm and shove down for more, and Sinbad takes his time, wanting to hear every last urgent noise he can wring from Ja’far’s body before simply _taking_ him. “So good,” he murmurs, spreading his fingers wide, then adding a third, knowing how it makes Ja’far _whine_. “You’re right, it’s been a while--have to make sure you’re nice and ready for me, right? I don’t want to hurt you, not when you’ve been so _ill_.” Ah, he’s so hard it’s going to be a struggle not to come before he can even get inside.

 

Ja'far swallows hard, his eyes rolling back at the _stretch_ of those fingers inside of him. Sinbad's fingers are far from small, with three of them bordering on too-much already, and the muscles in his thighs bunch and twitch, toes curling from where his foot rests against Sinbad's shoulder. "Not… not going to hurt me," he rasps, eyes shutting as he shifts to squirm his way down, biting harder onto his lower lip when the roll of his hips against Sinbad's hand makes his cock _throb_ from the slick, tight slide of it all. "S-Sin, you're not being fair, just--"

 

That’s probably enough teasing, and Sinbad pulls his fingers gently free, slicking up his cock before sliding up between Ja’far’s legs. He hooks his elbows under Ja’far’s knees, bending him almost in half, and breathes, “I hope you’re right.”

 

The first push in is slick and sweet and tight enough to feel good, not so much that it _hurts_ as it has sometimes before. Ja’far feels like he’s made for this, made for Sinbad to squeeze and touch and bite and slide into, and he groans low in his throat, burying his face in Ja’far’s neck.

 

Ja'far takes it back--Sinbad's fingers aren't even _close_ to this.

 

Bent double like this, Sinbad feels even _bigger_ , sliding deep inside of him and making him groan and thrash and desperately reach up, grabbing handfuls of Sinbad's hair to cling to as his body shudders hard. The stretch and ache of him inside makes Ja'far _whine_ , chest heaving slightly from the effort, and ah, just letting himself shift and wriggle in the slightest is enough to make his breath hiccup all the more. "Really… too much," he pants out into Sinbad's ear, eyes squeezing firmly shut, fingers trembling as they hold tighter still.

 

It’s hard to remember, sometimes, how long it had taken to get Ja’far to _want_ Sinbad inside him. That seems like another life when he’s trembling like this, shifting around to catch his breath and trying to get _more_ , and Sinbad has to remind himself to be gentle, gentle. “You feel so good,” he whispers, rolling his hips and taking Ja’far a little deeper each time, quick, easy thrusts to take the edge off, and he already feels like he’ll pass out if he doesn’t _move_. 

 

The brief thought crosses his mind that _this might never have happened again,_ and he shuts that out firmly, nipping, sucking hard at Ja’far’s neck, feeling the warmth and pulse of his blood, feeling the _life_ in him.

 

Ja'far simply lets his head fall back, the will to hold it up and bury it into Sinbad's neck gone with the pulse of Sinbad inside of him, the slick, hot stretch of him that leaves his breath caught in his throat and embarrassingly _helpless_ noises escape. "S… so do you," he manages, voice little more than a husk, and his legs twitch and quiver, toes curling when he wriggles and slides them forward, thighs wanting to cling to Sinbad's sides with every thrust that goes _deeper_. "Just… just go on, it's fine, I want…" _I want to feel all of you, I'm not going to break for once._

 

There’s something hypnotic about the way Ja’far sounds in the throes of pleasure, deep and throaty and somehow more masculine than usual, and it really shouldn’t make Sinbad’s cock as hard as it does. He bites, and slides in _deep_ , groaning against Ja’far’s skin when his hips slap against the other man’s, long, deep thrusts, slower than before, but so much harder, more thorough. “So tight,” he mutters, only half paying attention to his own words. “You’re so--just want to make you scream--”

 

His breath leaves him in a rush, his body unable to do anything but give a shuddering _clench_ when Sinbad sinks so far inside of him. It makes his back arch, the cramping twinge of it bringing his eyes to glaze and unfocus, the drag of his cock against Sinbad's stomach making him groan, and Ja'far's fingers squeeze against Sinbad's shoulders, pawing their way uselessly along his back, nails scraping into taut, tanned flesh. "Can't scream," he gasps, legs squeezing tight about Sinbad's hips. "C..can't _breathe_ \--" 

 

Sinbad considers for a moment, then nods. “Good enough.”

 

The scratch of Ja’far’s fingernails is enough to drive him _faster_ , ignoring his usual caution (not that he usually has _much_ at this point), slamming in to the root with every urgent, tight thrust into Ja’far’s unresisting body. Sweat beads on his back, and he braces his weight on his hands, shuddering at the _clench_ of Ja’far around him, forcing his own eyes open so he can watch Ja’far squirm and pant and gasp for breath, twitching and trembling like any maiden Sinbad’s ever seen. 

 

He usually doesn’t like spilling before his partner, but there’s no _helping_ it, not when everything Ja’far does, everything Ja’far _is_ makes him shudder, thrusting deep inside as he spills, coming hard and hot inside the smaller man, hips jerking in a ragged, uneven rhythm.

 

There's _something_ about the way that Sinbad loses himself, usually before Ja'far can even begin to think of it, that makes it all _better_.

 

Feeling his cock twitch and throb inside is one thing, how hot he is, how much _harder_ he is just before he comes, but to actually feel him spill, slick and hot and messy within him… Ja'far chokes on a whine, his own cock jumping at the way it feels, the way it makes his mind effectively click off, that added mess and _ease_ from it encouragement to rut down, to arch his back and let his own cock slide against Sinbad's stomach again, hard and dripping as he bites his lip to muffle a few particularly incriminating squeaks and mewls. 

 

He comes with a hard shudder, thighs bunching and clinging about Sinbad's sides, his fingernails a mindless scratch against Sinbad's back before he sags bonelessly into the bed, lingering little quivers making his breath catch anew. 

 

It takes Sinbad a long time to come back to himself, and when he does, it’s just to press sweet, clumsy kisses all over a mess of sweat-damp hair, some his, some Ja’far’s (mostly his). He knows vaguely that he should apologize for losing himself so soon, but everything is sort of settled, reduced to heavy breathing and salty skin and the sound of the waves outside.

 

"Down," is the weary husk of a mumble to follow, Ja'far's hands splaying against Sinbad's back to gently tug him down, no matter the stickiness or heat or the general mess of Sinbad's hair threatening to suffocate him. Just feeling Sinbad's heart beat hard and a little too fast against him is _nice_ right then.

 

Sinbad settles gladly on top of Ja’far, curling his arms around the smaller man. It’s a good thing Ja’far isn’t as fragile or breakable as he looks, and Sinbad exhales gladly, nuzzling down for a proper kiss.

 

"… Can't decide if I'm still mad at you or not," Ja'far murmurs after another moment, lazily catching Sinbad's lower lip between his teeth before letting his head drop back. 

 

“I honestly don’t care if you are,” Sinbad says with a little shrug. “You’re well within your rights to be. I knew you would be. I’m the first one to say that it was a selfish choice, because I don’t…” He takes a deep breath, moving down to lay his head on Ja’far’s chest, and his voice is a little shaky when he says, “I don’t want this to stop beating.”

 

"Don't start that again." Ja'far's hands slide up through Sinbad's hair, giving it a gentle tug. "When you look or sound like you're about to cry, it makes me wonder what sort of king I'm serving." 

 

“A foolish one.” Sinbad submits to the tug, giving Ja’far a little smile. “A king who loves you dearly.” _Loathe as you are to hear it, you squeamish little thing._

 

"Dramatics aren't flattering," he huffs, though that's the extent of his protests, no matter his tugging hands. "Show, don't tell."

 

“I think,” Sinbad says quietly, looking down into those odd, black eyes that he knows so well, “I’ve shown plenty. Telling is another kind of showing, after all.”

 

"… then if you must." Ja'far sighs up at him, eyes lidding with a wry smile on his lips. "I just already know. Hearing it is redundant." 

 

“I need to say it sometimes. Not often,” Sinbad assures him, brushing sweat-soaked hair out of his face (again, his own). “I don’t burden you with it more than once every year or two, do I? Except when I’m terribly drunk?”

 

"That makes up for every other day in the year," Ja'far dryly agrees, leaning up to nudge his nose gently against Sinbad's cheek. "You have a lot to say." 

 

Sinbad finally rolls over to the side, curling up with his arms firmly around Ja'far's waist. “Then just ignore me. You usually do.”

 

"I listen to all of it." Ja'far curls himself close, his head resting against Sinbad's chest. "That's why I don't need to hear it very often. I remember all of it." 

 

“Stop it,” Sinbad mutters, squeezing tight. “I’m going to sell my soul for you again if you don’t stop it.”

 

Ja'far groans at that. "Please refrain. I can only save it once, I think." 

 

~~

 

This is a job for a man.

 

But the men were too busy, or too stern, or warned her that if they went, she wouldn’t like the outcome as they dragged what was left of Judal back to Kou in a bag, and Hakuei (who is almost as good as a man, everyone agrees) is busy, off trying to integrate some tribe of barbarians peaceably into the Empire.

 

So if it’s going to be done, it’ll have to be her.

 

Kougyoku considers a dozen different ways to go. Finally, just because it makes her heart race, she dons a dun cloak over her dress, pulling the hood up so she looks like nothing so much as an itinerant wanderer (and what it does to her _hair_ she simply can’t consider, lest she go insane).

 

He’ll be kept in the palace, of course. It would be easier to march up with her titles all ruffled, demanding to know _where the Magi is_ , but she hasn’t got any official sanction to be here, and Kouen would be _furious_ if she used that power without his blessing. (Everyone else would be furious too, but he’d be _angry_ , maybe even _disappointed_ , and even the thought of that makes her want to throw up.)

 

It scrapes her hands and bruises her knees, but in the dark of night, Kougyoku manages to scramble in through a third-story window, wincing at a tear in her dress, and hiding in the shadows until she sees a servant complaining and carrying a bushel of fruits. _That’s it_.

 

She waits until the servant leaves the room, then sneaks up, heart pounding a rhythm of _what if he hates me, what if he’s forgotten me, what if he’s mean to me_ in her chest, and opens the door.

 

Judal, sprawled all-too-contently over the bed and barely dressed, one hand in the fruit basket and the other already turning one about in his palm, barely even glances up at first. "You didn't have to bring more right _now_ ," he sighs out with a dismissive wave. "I was just saying later, because I know this isn't going to last me…" 

 

He actually _does_ look up then, and he blinks at the sight, letting the peach roll from his grasp. "… _Kougyoku?_ " he manages, blinking again and sitting up, the long, loose spill of his hair tumbling back with the motion. Huh. Probably, he should get dressed, if there's going to be a girl here. Or not. Judal at least bothers pulling the tie of his robe a bit tighter. "Uh… what're you doing here? Hey, you look like a mess." 

 

Kougyoku squeaks when he looks at her, then balls her fists at her sides, cheeks flushing red. “What do you think I’m doing here?” she demands, and oh no, she can already feel tears starting to burn her eyes. _That doesn’t mean I’m going to let them fall! Not for him!_ “I came to bring you home!”

 

Oh. That's a problem. Judal finishes swallowing the mouthful of fruit that he'd tucked away into his cheek. "Did Kouen send you?" he cautiously asks. "And shut the door, will you? Stop yelling." 

 

Kougyoku kicks the door shut, a frown on her face now. “He didn’t send me. He said to let you go because you’ll be back, but everyone from Al-Sarmen is _really really mad!_ And--” She cuts off, biting her lip.

 

"Yeah, they do that," Judal grumbles, scowling as he hauls his robe properly back onto his shoulders and flops over onto his back. "And _what?_ I'm not coming back."

 

She scowls, folding her arms across her chest. “Why _not_? You’re going to be in _trouble_ , and I think a lot worse than before! And Kouen’s mad too, even if he’s busy right now!”

 

"They can't doooo anything," he groans, rolling over with a solid thump. "Not this time. I'm staying. Sinbad's my king now, I chose him."

 

Kougyoku’s eyes go so wide she forgets to breathe for a second, and she jumps onto the bed, grabbing Judal by the shoulders. “You _can’t_! You _didn’t_! Judal, that means you can’t come home anymore!!!”

 

"I'm a Magi, I can do whatever I want," Judal huffs, scowling up at her and reaching up to poke at her forehead. "Geez, you old hag, calm down. I wanted Sinbad to say 'yes' a long time ago, and it's not like _Kouen_ ever paid any attention to me, anyway."

 

Kougyoku brings a knee up into Judal’s belly, furious. “You’re treating this like a joke! Kouen’s not the only one you left--I skinned my knees climbing up that wall for you!”

 

Judal wheezes, flopping back down. "Why didn't you just walk in the front door?" 

 

“Because En would be mad at me!”

 

"En gets mad at a lot of people! Geez, what're you gonna do when you come and visit me? You can't keep climbing up walls like a… I don't know, something that isn't a prissy princess thing! Monkey, that's it!"

 

Kougyoku huffs, turning to sit on his chest, knees together. “He’s not going to _let_ me come visit you, dummy! I’m going to be married soon! This was my last chance to get you to come back!”

 

Judal huffs again, and in one, solid roll, dumps Kougyoku onto her back, looming over her. "You could just stay, too. I'll let you marry Sinbad, he apparently needs a wife or something, but if it's you, I don't mind." He snickers, leaning back. "Could you imagine En's face?" 

 

Kougyoku’s hands fly up over her mouth, and she sucks in a breath. “J-Judal, you can’t _say_ things like that! Really mean!” She kicks him in the shoulder, heart pounding from that brief second of having his weight pressing down on her.

 

"Whaaat? I wasn't being mean, it was a _gift!_ " Pouting, Judal rolls off of her, rubbing at his shoulder as he sighs. "Damn, you're annoying. Look, I'm not going back. I chose Sinbad, he's my king." _Even if I sort of got him to agree by striking a deal, but no one has to know that._

 

“Fine!” Kougyoku crosses her arms, turning her back on him. “Just stay here, then, stupid Magi!” Her eyes burn, and she scrubs at them with a scraped-up hand, smearing her makeup.

 

Judal opens his mouth, then scowls, thinking the better of it as he eyeballs her. "What's your problem, anyway?" he mutters, reaching out to grab a tail of her hair and gently tug. "Sindria's a lot more fun than Kou. Stay awhile, En can get over it. You don't _have_ to get married, I'm a Magi and I say so."

 

Kougyoku can’t quite think of the words, but it doesn’t matter when she turns, burying her head in his chest when the first sob wracks her body. “E-everyone’s _awful_ right now,” she cries, hands fisting in his shirt. “En’s mad, Stepmother’s mad, Ei’s gone, everyone’s m-mean to me--”

 

Oh. Yeah. Okay, maybe he hadn't entirely thought the whole spur-of-the-moment-get-Sinbad-to-agree-to-be-his-king thing, after all.

 

Judal hesitates, and slowly winds an arm around her, the first smoothing of her hair a bit awkward before he settles her more comfortably against him. "You're gonna make your makeup run even worse," he mutters. "Even Mei and Ha are being mean?"

 

Kougyoku climbs onto Judal’s lap without a second thought, the echo of a dozen times she’s taken shelter from the world there coming back in a heartbeat. She wipes a thumb under her eyes, hating how he’s _right_ about her makeup. “Mei’s always mean, and Ha’s been too b-busy with En, they’re always having meetings and stuff, I think En wants to attack Sindria or something, they never let me in.”

 

"We hadn't decided on war _yet_." Judal sighs, sagging back and wrapping both arms around her as he drags Kougyoku down with him. "War's fun and all, but not when living here is _more_ fun. They'll calm down. Maybe Al-Sarmen will even get bored and go away." Wishful thinking, of course, but it's nice not having them breathing down his neck all day, or telling him what to do. He can only hope that _lasts_. 

 

Kougyoku flops down onto Judal’s lap, sniffing hard, trying to remind herself not to blow her nose on his clothes. Boys don’t like that. “You could have _told_ me you were going.”

 

"… Weeelll," he slowly hedges, "I didn't exactly _plan_ on it." He offers her the long sleeve of his robe. "Wipe your face off, you're looking pretty gross."

 

Kougyoku takes his sleeve, scrubbing it over her face, then curling up into a ball around his arm. “You should have taken me with you. That was really _rude_ , you always promised you’d take me one day. I had to come the whole way without flying!”

 

"But I didn't know I'd be staying! It wasn't like I _knew_ Freckles was dying or whatever and that I could…" Judal trails off, scowling, and he gives his arm a little shake, but doesn't really actively try and dislodge her. "I dunno what you want me to do. I'm gonna stay. He's my king now, that's how it's gonna be." _So you should stay, too._

 

Kougyoku huffs, and curls up on his lap, looking up. “I wish I could stay. But En’s mad enough, if I go missing too he probably will just kill everyone here.” She tugs on Judal’s shirt. “You’re _definitely_ not coming home?”

 

"He can't kill everyone here, no matter how he likes to think he can," Judal sniffs, and he sets his hands atop her hair, ruffling it all the more. "I'm definitely not, so _stay_. Just for a bit." 

 

“But I’m not really...I’m not anyone here.” She butts her head against his hand, eyes sliding shut. “I didn’t come as a princess, and I’ll have to hide in your room. Oh, and Ka Koubun is going to be looking for me, I lost him a week ago but I bet he’s going to catch up soon.”

 

Judal whistles a bit at that. "You really did wanna see me again, huh?" His fingers slide through the thick of her hair, kneading down to her scalp. "Sinbad's _my_ king. He'll treat you like a princess if I say he has to, so you don't have to worry about that." 

 

At the tug of Judal’s fingers, Kougyoku smiles, stretching out like a cat. “Mmmmmm….okay. Until Ka Koubun makes me go home, I guess I’m already _out_ , right?”

 

"Yep!" Judal grins, dragging her up to lay lengthwise against him, slinging an arm and a leg over her. "No more scaling walls to get to me, though that's pretty badass. Just walk through doors, then you don't get all messed up and weird looking. It's gonna give you more wrinkles to stress out like that." 

 

Ja'far has come to one conclusion, and one conclusion only: the only way to get Sinbad out of this situation is to get rid of Judal.

 

The only way to get rid of Judal is to kill him.

 

Ja'far supposes he's grateful to the brat, to some extent. Dying wasn't a pleasant thing to think about, but putting Sinbad on a veritable leash certainly isn't either, and Ja'far has no desire to watch his king fall down an inevitably slippery slope. That's why he makes his way to Judal's room in the dead of night, slips in without a sound, and has every intention of killing him.

 

The sight of the Magi curled around a _girl_ puts something of a damper on the idea. 

 

No. Not just a girl, judging by her dress and the gleam of the metal vessel next to her on the bed.

 

Ja'far stares, long and hard, and soundlessly tucks his blades away before slipping back out of the room. Barging into Sinbad's own chambers in the middle of the night isn't an unheard of thing, and Ja'far doesn't do that exactly _quietly_. 

 

"Did you know your Magi invited a princess of Kou to his bed? No, not just his bed," Ja'far irritably snaps out. "Your _country?_ "

 

Sinbad yawns, blinking slowly in the darkness. “I believe,” he murmurs, uncurling and stretching out his limbs, “I have a rule on the state of undress you’re supposed to be in when you wake me up in the middle of the night.”

 

"Will you stop joking around?!" Ja'far hisses, lighting a candle or three as he stalks further into the room. "Is sex all that you think about?" 

 

Sinbad wakes up a little more with a resentful grumble, sitting up with a sheet barely providing modesty, making no effort to cover himself. “Judal isn’t my prisoner. He’s allowed to have friends and lovers. I’ll greet her properly in the morning.”

 

"That isn't the point! It's a girl from _Kou_ , probably someone from the royal family, I can tell just by looking at her," the younger man spits out. "Do you really want the Kou Empire just waltzing into Sindria on their own time, without any announcements?" 

 

“One girl does not an empire make,” Sinbad says with a slight frown. “Who received her at this hour? Why didn’t anyone wake me?”

 

Ja'far throws his hands up into the air. "No one, as far as I can see! She was simply in his bed, apparently making herself out to be a fine pillow." 

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow, waiting. “Are you going to tell me why you came to be in a position to observe this?”

 

"I was making sure the brat wasn't getting into any trouble." It's not _really_ a lie.

 

“And you’ve appointed yourself his keeper? Enough that you need to make sure he’s not getting into trouble in the middle of the night, in his own bedroom?”

 

"You're telling me I should trust him, just like that, after all that he's done?" 

 

“I’m _telling_ you that treating him as if he’s a bomb about to explode won’t help if he actually _is_. Think of him as a volatile, unpredictable asset instead,” Sinbad suggests.

 

"That doesn't make any sense!" Ja'far's fingers twitch with the urge to _strangle_ the man. "Why should I wait for him to do something when I could be preventing it?!"

 

“Because I’m telling you to.” Sinbad’s voice is still calm, but there’s a note of steel in it now. “You can’t undo what I’ve done, Ja’far. Judal is a part of Sindria now.”

 

_We'll see how long that lasts._

 

Ja'far's teeth grit, and he turns, angrily snuffing out a candle with a pinch of his fingers. "Fine. Just go back to sleep, then. Deal with the princess in the morning yourself."

 

Sinbad sighs, turning over and letting his toes wiggle out the bottom of the sheet. “Good night, Ja’far!” _Maybe someday, you’ll forgive him for saving your life._


	3. Chapter 3

 

Outside of the 'saving his life' aspect, Ja'far is hardpressed to find a single thing about Judal that he likes. 

 

The problem lies in all of the things that Judal has done in the past, and how he has yet to show proof of anything he's _severed_ , regarding Al-Sarmen. Ja'far simply doesn't _care_ that his life was saved. If it had been done for free, that would have been one thing--in this case, however, it's obvious that it was everything _but_.

 

When his thoughts and dreams (he never dreams, but now, apparently, he does) are plagued with what could happen to Sinbad because of Judal's _deal_ , the sight of his rukh black and tainted and his form twisting into something utterly _inhuman_ , Ja'far simply can't do anything other than make one decision.

 

 _This is illogical_ , a part of his mind says, and indeed, he does have to wonder if Sinbad is right, if Judal truly has changed and wants to be a part of Sindria in a _helpful_ manner, done with his past and done with his involvement with their enemies. _But at the same time, Judal has proved Sinbad wrong, time and time again. Why is this time any different?_

 

Then again, if he's alive--and he plans to stay that way--his vows to stay by Sinbad's side and protect him remain fully intact. Leaving _anything_ up to chance, especially something preventable, is far from on Ja'far's to-do list.

 

Killing a Magi, however, is a task that Ja'far finds improbable at best. 

 

There has to be some irony in attempting to poison Judal (using some of the more lethal versions of his stash, which he handles with care now that he's not exactly immune) and it not exactly _backfiring_ , but simply not _working_. Ja'far has to wonders if Magi have naturally purifying bodies or something along those lines, or if the Kou Empire has made the little wretch immune on their own time. 

 

That idea in particular shot down, Ja'far sets his teeth into a grind, goes about his daily tasks--irritably, much to the chagrin of his coworkers--and tries to _think_. 

 

Well.

 

There's always _that_ option. 

 

Ja'far makes a mental apology to the Eighth Princess of Kou--really, she seems like a nice enough girl--and waits. 

 

Judal’s bed is always warmer than her own. Kougyoku had learned that years ago, and wistfully remembers a time it was _allowed_ for her to sneak into the Magi’s bed, curling up in a smell of spices and peach, feeling the pulse of Judal’s heart against her ear. That had been before she was a proper princess, before she’d had attendants who cared where she’d spent her evenings, and before everything had gotten much colder.

 

She sleeps so well in the circle of Judal’s arms that it’s long, long hours before she wakes, seeing the unfamiliar, neatly-robed figure of an official advisor.

 

Her scream probably wakes half the palace.

 

Ja'far supposes he can use that as an advantage, in a way.

 

If anyone asks, it's easy enough to blame Judal's insanity and tendencies. Defending a Kou Princess from Judal's _advances_ isn't exactly a farfetched lie, especially considering how sluggishly the idiot stirs, flopping partially atop Kougyoku even as he slowly wakes. 

 

"… Gyoku? What's--"

 

Even in the dark, Ja'far values his aim, and a thrown dagger through his braid to pin Judal to the bed is rather _satisfying_. "Princess, if you would please get out of the way."

 

Kougyoku has barely a second of paralyzed terror before her brain kicks in, and she throws herself on top of Judal as if he’s the maiden, she the Magi. “Don’t you touch him!” she screams, yanking the pin out of her hair and calling on Vinea. “l’ll stop you!”

 

Ja'far takes it back, if only because he _hates_ messes. 

 

Dungeon capturer she might be, but he's faster, and about a hundred times more experienced than a little girl trying to play protector. A simple loop of wire about her and her neck provides a quick means of control, and a sharp yank after that enough to cut off her air before he tosses her aside. There are herbs--magic, too--that can make sure she doesn't exactly _remember_ all of this later, as needed. 

 

Judal's awake now, but a hasty grab for his wand isn't exactly fast enough when Ja'far is already zeroed-in on him, a knee slamming into the Magi's sternum as he pins Judal to the bed, blade at his throat. "Try it," he quietly says, "and not only will this be your last night living, but I will take my time reminding you of all the times you drew that thing on my king." 

 

Kougyoku thrashes, attempts to at least call out for _help_. Her vision starts to go dark, and her eyes flare in defiance. The hairpin digs a bloody hole in her hand as she clutches, holding on to consciousness just as strongly, and water rushes up out of nowhere in force.

 

Then, finally, everything slips to black. _Maybe he can make ice, at least._

 

The tension of Kougyoku slumping against the wire brings Ja'far to yank in back in short order, his attention fully gone to Judal. "The hell is your _problem?_ " the Magi spits out, breathing in and out shallowly, considering the press of that blade that nearly nicks his skin each time. "I saved your _life_ , you know--"

 

"After bargaining with _Sinbad's_." Ja'far has no qualms about _cutting_ , the thin, bright flash of blood that wells up underneath Judal's chin rather satisfying. "No matter what he thinks, I know exactly what you are." 

 

"I'm not here to kill him!"

 

"There's more than one way to kill a person." 

 

Judal growls, lurches up like some big cat, and Ja'far does have to give him a bit of credit for his strength. It's not _much_ , only enough to send them off the bed, and Ja'far still ends up with his heel digging down into the brat's chest. Judal's more desperate attempt to grab for his wand is enough to make him roll his eyes, and Ja'far kicks it further away without another thought.

 

"Damn it, let me _go_ \--"

 

"Shut up." It _should_ be the last time he has to ever tell Judal that, what with how he moves to cut the Magi's throat.

 

It isn’t as if Sinbad hasn’t been _expecting_ Ja’far to try something, after all. Not after the conversations they’ve had, and Ja’far has certainly made it perfectly clear what he thinks about Judal’s presence in Sindria, if not his very existence. 

 

He’d already been in the same wing of the palace, already been striding that way when he’d heard the cut-off scream, and had raced down, long legs pumping fast as he’d sprinted to the Magi’s room, hearing the _thump_ of a body hitting the floor.

 

Ja’far is a good assassin. Sinbad just hopes his reflexes are also quick, because nothing short of bodily intervention is going to save Judal’s life now.

 

He throws himself forward, aiming to knock Ja’far away, tripping on a snaking wire and landing on top of Judal, with no time to say anything.

 

Or perhaps it’s less the time, more the fact that Ja’far’s blade flicks fast across his neck where Judal’s should be, and everything explodes in a spray of crimson.

 

If there's one scent that's forever familiar in Ja'far's nose, it's the scent of Sinbad's blood.

 

Judal is forgotten in a flash, the pounding of blood in his own ears a fast, panicky thing, and Ja'far's blades immediately clatter to the ground, fingers pressing hard and fast to the severed artery. "Sin--Sin, I'm _sorry_ , you weren't supposed to--" 

 

The words are hollow in his ears. Of _course_ Sinbad wasn't supposed to be in the middle of this, wasn't suppose to be involved at _all_. Any harm to the man at all is what he was trying to prevent after all, and yet--

 

"Move," Judal frantically breathes in his ear, and Ja'far balks, no matter the viselike grip on his wrist from the Magi trying to pull it from Sinbad's neck. "Move! Let me heal him--"

 

"Considering what you did to me, there's no way I--"

 

"I fucking _purified you_ , you bastard! I ripped all the poison you've ever taken from your veins, all the fucking mess it was doing to your body, all the _tumors_ it was growing on your damned brain! Now let me fucking _fix him._ "

 

Ja'far's hand numbly falls away, and Judal immediately lurches forward, magic on his fingers stopping the flow of blood, and the deep gash neatly cauterized and closed within moments, the only strain from it how he bites his lip, brow furrowed in worry and concentration. 

 

The worst thing about having his throat cut, Sinbad thinks in irritation somewhere under the pounding, pulsing panic, is that he can’t even _talk_. His hands don’t move right, body convulsing, and only after something black-white-hot slides across his throat does everything stop being red. 

 

His arms flop down to the bed, then slowly try to drift up, resting on Judal’s wrist. His whole chest is sticky and rapidly cooling, and all his extremities are oddly cold. The concern, the intent on Judal’s face is somehow soothing, and his hand clutches a little more tightly. _Thank you_ , he thinks, even if his voice isn’t working yet.

 

"Reeeeally don't like that feeling," Judal groans mostly to himself, shutting his eyes briefly as more rukh flutters about his fingertips, coalesced in such a large, dense amount that it's probably rather visible to everyone in the room. "No one said choosing kings would make it hurt when you almost _die_. Geez, Sinbad, put your pet snake on a _leash_."

 

The door quietly shutting at his heels is the last of Ja'far's presence, and Judal scowls, shoving his attention fully back into the healing process. 

 

It takes long hours of healing, and many more of cuddling and petting, before Sinbad feels well enough to leave Judal’s bed, tucking him in with the traumatized princess as a replacement hugtoy. 

 

Only then does he set out in search of Ja’far, poking his head into the darkened office first--no matter what’s happened, he reasons, the hives will keep him tethered to this place more strongly than any other.

 

Sure enough, there’s a single candle burning, and Sinbad can make out the vague outline of shoulders and a head. “I doubt you’ve slept.”

 

Ja'far startles so badly that his hand snaps out, nearly knocking the burning candle over in the process. While he catches it, wax still splatters everywhere, and amidst his cursing, Ja'far manages still to shrink back, the shake of his hands nearly visible. 

 

"Sin. Sinbad--I--" 

 

He _feels_ like a stupid, rash teenager again, too fast to anger, too fast to pull out a weapon and kill, and that's what he's done, isn't it? Sinbad is still standing before him as fine as he ever was no matter _his_ mistakes, all because of Judal's hand that healed him. Ja'far swallows hard, climbs to his feet, steps out from around his desk, and without a moment's hesitation, simply kneels at his king's feet.

 

"… An apology is, without a doubt, nowhere _near_ acceptable enough, but I beg you to hear it all the same, my king." 

 

Sinbad looks down. Ja’far has been rash, and hateful, and desperately, ferociously protective of him to the exclusion of everything else including sanity. What a _gem_ he’d found, those many years ago. Still…

 

He nods, extending his hand for Ja’far to take. “I’ll hear it. Speak.”

 

There's a flash of relief, but it's not nearly enough. Ja'far bids his fingers not to tremble when he reaches out, grabbing at Sinbad's hand to pull it to his lips. "… I acted without thinking." He sucks in a slow, calming breath. "Not… entirely, but I--… all I thought of was the Judal we've seen in the past, how he has nearly killed you so many times before, how he's destroyed things you've known and loved. The last thing I wanted was for him to do that again, especially knowing his ties with Al-Sarmen have yet to be severed. Killing him was the only guarantee that I thought I would have to see you properly protected, especially since you became his king in order to save _me_." Ja'far swallows again. "I didn't realize… that you do hold some value to him, after all. I'm sorry." 

 

There’s barely a thought in Sinbad’s mind to keep playing the stern king, not when Ja’far is so humble, so shaken, so obviously on the edge. He kneels, cupping Ja’far’s face in his hand, and very gently, kisses him once on each eyelid. “Were I as vigilant in my own defense as you, I have no doubt I would live to be a thousand. In my heart, you are forgiven, wholly and completely with no reservation. I would ask only one task of you in penance.”

 

Ja'far nods before the words even finish rolling from Sinbad's tongue. "Anything. Whatever it is, I don't care; I'll see to it immediately." 

 

“Apologize to Judal. Sincerely. No matter how unkind he is.”

 

It makes his stomach roll, but Ja'far nods again all the same. _It isn't even your place to be disgusted with the idea of it right now, you idiot._ "… I'll do it right now, Your Majesty."

 

“He and the princess are sleeping right now.” Sinbad looks down at Ja’far, and sighs. “You’re one of the smartest men I’ve ever known, Ja’far. Surely you can see that I don’t make all my decisions blindfolded. Sometimes the best course of action is the most rash. Trust in me, that’s all I’ve ever asked.”

 

"I _do_ trust you!" It comes out a little too high, a little too panicky, and the look Ja'far shoots up at him is nothing short of desperate. "It's just--with Judal, you… you tend not to make the best decisions." Ja'far bites his lip, glancing aside. "You're even worse when it comes to me, no matter how many times I have asked you to think of yourself first. I felt… responsible." 

 

“So you trust me,” Sinbad says dryly, “as long as I make decisions you agree with.” He tightens his hands on Ja’far’s shoulders, then gives up and pulls him into an embrace. “You will have to live,” he says, slightly muffled against Ja’far’s shoulder, “with the fact that you serve a king who would trade his life for yours, and considers it to be a good decision.”

 

"… I will never understand why you think I am _worth_ such a thing," is the eventual, quiet reply, lost mostly into Sinbad's neck as Ja'far shoves his face there, unable to quite look at the other man. " _Anyone_ could do my job. You have dozens of others to protect you."

 

“And here I thought you were going to trust me.” Sinbad squeezes, a bit too hard, just enough to be a _reminder_ to Ja’far the next time his ribs twinge. “I would be lost without you. And I don’t like being lost.”

 

"Just because I trust you doesn't mean I don't like to _understand_ ," Ja'far mumbles, sagging into Sinbad's hold with a heave of his chest. "Besides, you seem to do all of your own navigating just fine, most of the time."

 

“How confident do you think I’d be in forging ahead without you and Masrur and the rest of them by my side? That reminds me,” he says, stroking a hand down Ja’far’s back. “Tell Masrur you forgive him. I think he’s been exercising upwards of ten hours a day in penance. He’s certain you hate him.”

 

"For _what?_ " Ja'far manages, lifting his head with an utterly confused look on his face. "What does Masrur think he did?"

 

“Stopped you, on my orders.” Sinbad sighs, loosening his grip enough that Ja’far won’t have to crane his neck up. “He even asked me if it would be easier for you if he resigned and left, so you’d never have to see him again.”

 

"Of all the ridiculous things…" the smaller man sighs, rocking back onto his heels with a nod. "I'll speak to him, too, then. Honestly, I feel like we've all gone insane…"

 

Sinbad hesitates for a moment, then leans forward, cupping Ja’far’s face. “Know this,” he says, very quietly. “If you had kept everything as much a secret as you had wanted, none of this would have been avoided. Something else would have happened, because I would have moved heaven and earth to get you back. If you had died, I would have brought you back. Maybe in trying I would have followed you. So _don’t_ think you can hide things like that for my own good.”

 

"… Oh." What else is there to say to something like that, really? Ja'far sucks in a slow, calming breath, staring up at Sinbad with his brow knitting. "You're… something of an idiot, you know that? But… I'm… honored, that you would do something like that for me."

 

“Honor has little to do with it.” Though it _is_ nice to hear. “Just take better care of yourself. Apologize to Judal, forgive Masrur, and….hmm, start sleeping in your bed instead of slumped over your desk. And eating at least once a day.” Sinbad grins. “How long do I get to make demands on you as compensation for slitting my throat?”

 

"For awhile," Ja'far replies with a sigh, his head hanging forward. "Did it hurt terribly? I'm really, incredibly sorry."

 

“Mmm, felt more strange than anything. You’ve been cut badly before, you know how it goes sort of cold? Actually, I should thank you, I’ve always wondered what a fatal blow feels like.” His eyes flicker, and he adds, more seriously, “The best part about keeping an assassin, Ja’far, is knowing he’ll kill who you want him to--and no one else. Remember that.”

 

And if he hadn't felt thoroughly chastised before, that certainly did it. Ja'far manages another, brisk nod. "Yes. Yes, of course. My apologies, my king."

 

“You’re forgiven.” Sinbad leans forward, and brushes a quick kiss to the tip of Ja’far’s nose. “I mean it. I’ll never bring it up again.”

 

"… That's a lie, but I don't mind," is the sigh to follow. "I'd rather be reminded so I don't act so… rashly again."

 

“Then I’ll trust your judgment.” Sinbad smiles, and squeezes Ja’far’s hand. “Go take care of everything, then come to my bed. If you want to.”

 

A short nod, and Ja'far makes quick work of an exit, speeding down the hall to deal with Judal first, whether he's sleeping or _not_. 

 

The sooner this is behind him, the better.

 

Judal is decidedly cranky about being woken, but it's for the best, as he's more concerned with going back to sleep than being apologized to. _It isn't the first time I've nearly been killed by you_ isn't exactly a sane response, but Ja'far takes it, with an apology to the wide-eyed princess as well, who looks torn between attacking and hiding. 

 

Masrur is a little more awkward, a little more strange, but the Fanalis seems relieved, and that's what counts (even though Ja'far still isn't quite certain why there was an issue in the first place--really, the man was just following orders). 

 

Some things about people he'll never quite understand, Ja'far thinks.

 

Sinbad, no matter how long Ja'far has known him, is an enigma. Tonight is proof enough of that, considering he'd nearly killed the man by accident, and Sinbad wanted him to apologize to _other people_. It makes his head hurt a bit, and makes him less inclined to be in his bed by his lonesome, far preferring the man's warmth and the thrum of his blood within his veins rather than it spilling onto the floor.

 

"… I brought your favorite wine," is his offer when he pokes his head into the king's chambers. As if Sinbad doesn't already have it here, but it's a gesture, all the same.

 

At the sound, Sinbad looks up from a pile of scrolls, stretching slowly before standing. “Just goes to show that you have good taste sometimes.” He plucks two glasses from a nearby shelf, a sideways jerk of his head leading Ja’far out to the balcony, where he sets the glasses down on the railing. “You didn’t have to join me tonight. I’m glad you did.”

 

"… I think after tonight, I'd like to keep an eye on you," Ja'far wryly admits, heaving a sigh as he carefully moves to pour them each a glass of wine--Sinbad's substantially fuller. 

 

“Ah, because so many problems have been caused by you not keeping an eye on me,” Sinbad says with a grin, clinking his glass against Ja’far’s. “Was it just me, or did Judal say something about tumors growing in your brain?”

 

"God, I don't know," Ja'far groans, dropping his chin into one hand as he leans against the balcony. "I wouldn't even be surprised. Considering I was starting to lose function in some of my hands and feeling in my legs, anything is possible." 

 

Sinbad wraps an arm around Ja’far’s shoulders, feeling the warmth under his hand. “Are you going to do it again? Take poison, build up an immunity?”

 

"… Considering I'm partially useless any time I'm sent out to assassinate someone if I don't…" Ja'far sighs, shrugging as he leans to the side, letting his head rest against Sinbad's shoulder. "It's not wise, to work with that much poison and be so easily affected by it." 

 

Sinbad sighs, tugging a strand of Ja’far’s hair. “You can always just stab people, you know. I don’t like what it does to you.” He hesitates, then asks, “If I ordered you not to, would you listen?”

 

"Not every situation calls for a stabbing," he mildly points out, and frowns, a crease of annoyance obvious on his brow. "… I probably would," Ja'far reluctantly replies, "but it wouldn't be smart."

 

Sinbad makes a decision, and nods. “I’d rather be stupid and keep you safe. Think of it as me keeping you on your toes, if you must. No more taking poison.”

 

"I'll consider it a challenge," is the sigh to follow, and Ja'far downs back a swallow of wine. "Watch, now I'll die from a slip of my own blades."

 

“You’re not wincing,” Sinbad points out. “Have you gotten used to the taste of wine so quickly, or does it please you?”

 

"… It's not _terrible_ ," Ja'far grumbles in response. "This one, in particular. You have… decent taste."

 

Sinbad’s answer is to lean over and brush a kiss over the shell of Ja’far’s ear. “I do indeed. Remember that.”

 

"I was talking about _wine_ ," Ja'far mutters, no matter the little twitch of a shiver that slides down his spine. "Not many other things. In other things, you're far more… garish." His eyes slide sideways, to the faint makings of a scar that cuts across Sinbad's throat, and Ja'far makes a valiant attempt not to frown (he fails). "Or just plain wrong."

 

“Stop that.” Sinbad gives another tug, less gentle, and refills his own glass. “I didn’t invite you here tonight to be morbid. I want to celebrate the fact that we’re both alive and well.”

 

"My apologies, I can't quite help it." Ja'far takes another, slower sip of his wine. "… You're certain that doesn't hurt?" 

 

“I’ve been injured far worse in my life,” Sinbad assures him. “This is no more than a papercut. Judal is surprisingly adept at healing, for someone so accustomed to bringing injury to others.”

 

Ja'far ignores the slight against his killing methods, as it's for the best that Sinbad considers it a paper cut, after all. "He _is_ a water-based magician. Ideally, he will put that healing ability to good use far often than not."

 

“It would be more likely,” Sinbad suggests, “if he feels some measure of acceptance from the people he’s to be working with. More incentive to save their lives, you understand.”

 

Honestly, Ja'far tries very, very hard not to look entirely put out at the idea. "Even if I can acknowledge he cares somewhat for you, you realize it's very hard for me to respect the little brat."

 

“Then avoid him.” Sinbad shrugs. “Simple as that. Don’t make trouble, I’ll try to keep him out of trouble, we can make do that way until the two of you learn to live with each other. And if he has his little princess, as long as I can keep her brother from invading, maybe he’ll be a bit less….ah, precious.”

 

"I don't make _any_ trouble, he's the one that pokes at _me_ ," Ja'far growls, and promptly finishes off his glass with a huff. "And that princess will be trouble at this rate, too. Please don't ever wonder why I worry about your safety or future." 

 

“I don’t wonder. I just think it’s a waste of time when you know I’ll do what I like in any case!” Sinbad drains his own glass, and before Ja’far can refill either of them, tugs him back into the bedroom, onto the bed. “Tell me,” he says, eyes sparkling, face slightly flushed from the night’s cold and wine, “what would please you this night?”

 

Sinbad really _is_ an example in never heeding warnings and generally being the most unpredictable person he knows, even after all of these years. Ja'far opens and shuts his mouth, a dozen protests coming to the front of his tongue, but what's the point in that when Sinbad won't _listen?_

 

… And it isn't like Ja'far truly minds, anyway.

 

A soft sigh, and Ja'far leans up, brushing his lips to the slightly raised line of that too-fresh scar. "Whatever would please my king." 

 

Sinbad’s hand comes up to tangle in Ja’far’s hair, leaning down to give him a long, slow, lingering kiss. “What would please your king,” he murmurs against chapped pink lips, “is to hear you call out hoarse and needing and overwhelmed with pleasure. How shall I make that happen?”

 

 _Really_ , considering all of the times he's let Sinbad take him to bed, he shouldn't be so taken off-guard by the things the man _says_.

 

Ja'far swallows hard nonetheless, his mouth dry and his pulse thudding too-fast. "It… I don't… ever really… have many preferences," he attempts, the way his tongue trips over itself annoying, especially when his words are already muffled against Sinbad's lips. His own fingers lift, coming to wrap up in the fall of Sinbad's hair and hold tight. Hours ago, Ja'far had nearly _killed him_. He understands now, more than ever, Sinbad's panic over the potential loss of _his_ heartbeat.

 

“No preference?” Sinbad laughs, dumping Ja’far on his back, crawling on top of him and pinning him firmly down to the bed. “So I can do whatever I like, and you’ll enjoy it all equally? What if I had you lick my cock, would you like that?” He leans down, nipping at one ear, then slowly sucking on the lobe. “We’re alive for a reason. Take life. Make it serve you. Enjoy every second. Take what you want.”

 

Ja'far groans, his head tilting back as his hands drag their way down Sinbad's back, digging in on their own accord. "I don't _think_ about this sort of thing, not like you," he breathlessly protests, his eyes lidding. "If you want my mouth on your cock, then shove it in my mouth already, it's fine if it's _you_ \--though you've always been very adamant about your preferences otherwise." 

 

“Ah, so prurient. Always well-behaved,” Sinbad teases, pulling back and stripping off Ja’far’s robes, leaning up enough that just the ends of his hair brush over pale, freckled skin, eyes locked on Ja’far. Every touch is whisper-light, every movement slow and deliberate. “You don’t think about sex at all. You don’t want me to do anything to you.”

 

"T-that's not what I said--" Ja'far sucks in a sharp breath, skin flushing hot as he tries not to squirm to no avail, his fingers sliding up to bury themselves into Sinbad's hair. "I just--I don't make a _habit_ of thinking of this sort of thing--not when I'd prefer to just… _do it_. Not turn it over in my mind all day." 

 

“Oho. To just _do it?_ ” Sinbad asks, arching an eyebrow, still not giving in and actually touching any part of Ja’far. “Do what, exactly?” He leans down, breath hot over the curve of one shoulder, the very tip of his lips ghosting over Ja’far’s chest, his hair the only thing making real contact. “What is it you want me to do to you?”

 

"You're the absolute _worst_ ," Ja'far grinds out, his eyes narrowing as he gives Sinbad's hair a solid _yank_. "You mean to tell me you don't want your favorite advisor subjected to your every whim instead?" 

 

Sinbad only grins, eyes darkening when Ja’far yanks at his hair, cock filling between his legs. “Oh, I do.” He leans down further, letting his breath trace down over Ja’far’s abdomen, down to the inside of one trembling thigh. “I just want to hear you ask for what you want. I won’t make you beg yet, just ask.”

 

Ja'far bites at his own lip, his fingers shaking a bit from where they're tangled up in Sinbad's hair. "I…" It's obscene, how good Sin always looks down there. Even if he doesn't think about it so much, he's thinking about it _now_ , caught up in the obnoxious thrum of his blood that only Sinbad seems capable of riling. "L-let me… I want your mouth." 

 

Ah, that makes Sinbad’s cock ache, and he reaches down to squeeze it at the base, catching his breathe for a moment before settling down between Ja’far’s legs. He rests his hands on those familiar scarred thighs, stroking over the soft warmth of the skin there, and flicks his tongue out, letting the tip of it run up the underside of Ja’far’s cock. “Want my mouth where?”

 

A _twitch_ runs up his spine, and Ja'far chokes down a groan, his fingers digging hard against Sinbad's scalp. "Around my cock." Just saying it makes him flush hot, makes him that much harder, and he bites at the inside of his cheek, his eyes briefly squeezing shut. "Please." 

 

Sinbad can’t deny that as little as he’s usually drawn to such a sight, Ja’far has a nice cock, thick and hard and pale, flushed red at the tip with a drop of liquid beading there. He closes his mouth around the head, looking up to meet Ja’far’s eyes when he gives it a slow suck, flicking his tongue over the slit before sliding down, moaning low in his throat at the _taste_.

 

Sinbad isn't _fair_.

 

He never is, least of all in things like this, leaving Ja'far with the urge to thrash beneath him and just _barely_ stopping himself from doing so. He bites down on his lower lip, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose as his hips twitch up all the same, unable to help himself when Sinbad's mouth is so damnably hot and slick and _good_ around his cock. 

 

As little as Sinbad usually enjoys this, there’s no one he enjoys it with more than Ja’far. He’s always so _squirmy_ , so eager, so overwhelmed and easy to please in a way that makes Sinbad more confident about his own paltry skills. He loves curling his tongue around the shaft, sliding up and down to get more of a reaction, letting his thumbs dig in harder to Ja’far’s thighs, one hand coming up to cup his balls and stroke over them gently as he sucks, lowering his head until he feels short hairs tickling his nose.

 

Dimly, Ja'far recalls that Sinbad wanted to hear his voice, and so it's probably a good thing that it's more and more difficult by the second to keep it _back._

 

His toes curl with the slide of Sinbad's tongue, the tension that sweeps up his body just from feeling Sinbad's mouth so damnably wet around him making him _ache_. Ja'far groans, his head falling back helplessly, fingers grabbing and pulling at Sinbad's hair as his hips lurch up, feeling the spasm of the other man's throat around him just shy of _too much_. 

 

The only thing Sinbad can’t stand about cocksucking is that he can’t _talk_. He’d love watching Ja’far shiver at his words, squirm and wriggle because he’s so _aroused_ , though he supposes it’s somewhat as good to feel him pulsing hard and eager and desperate in his mouth. 

 

He sucks hard, reaching down helplessly to touch himself as he does, groaning at the bruising hardness and force of Ja’far’s cock in his mouth, obscene wet noises dripping from his lips.

 

A twist of his head, a glance down to see how eager Sinbad is as well, a hand already between his legs, and something in Ja'far's mind shorts out and clicks off.

 

Ja'far sucks in a sharp breath, his body twisting, hands grabbing, cock sliding from Sinbad's mouth with a slick pop as he shoves the other man over onto his back. He's wobbly at best, legs shaky and not so intent on holding him upright as he thought, especially when he glances down to see Sinbad's _face_ \--cheeks flushed and lips sticky and bruised and--"You look like you're enjoying this as much as I am," he rasps, a hand at the base of his own cock squeezing to stop himself from coming right then and there as he guides himself back to Sinbad's mouth, setting his knees to either side of his king's head. "Maybe… a little bit more." 

 

 _God_.

 

Sinbad forgets that he’d been touching himself, forgets everything he’d wanted to say, forgets everything but _Ja’far_ at those words, hips twitching up involuntarily and a low, eager moan tearing out of his mouth. _God yes please just use me please_ comes too far to the forefront of his mind, and he’d never, never thought he’d get off so hard on being used.

 

Then again, he’d never suspected Ja’far of this, of fucking his mouth, of holding him down and _taking what he wants._

 

With a low, urgent groan, Sinbad comes hard, hand not quite able to reach his own cock, drooling and sucking sloppily at Ja’far’s cock anyway, eyes squeezing shut at the intensity of the shudders wracking his body.

 

If nothing else, Ja'far knows he guessed right in _this_. 

 

Truthfully, Ja'far doesn't even know why this makes _him_ so hard. It _does_ feel good, though, just to wrap his hands up in Sinbad's hair, to hold his head still as his hips lurch forward, sliding long and deep over his tongue, down that sloppily swallowing throat, and Ja'far doesn't need to _look_ to know how hard Sinbad comes, all over himself like something little better than a harlot. 

 

It doesn't really last. Ja'far wishes it would, just a little longer, but he's at the end of his stamina just _watching_ Sinbad, never mind how it _feels_ , just being able to rut against his face. He groans as he comes, pulling back once he starts, making sure to spill over Sinbad's tongue as much as his face, his breath raggedly hitching at the _sight_ of Sinbad flushed and so very _messy_.

 

"You're… just…" Ah, there's a dozen adjectives. Ja'far can't quite find one, though, as he sags back to sit on Sinbad's chest, panting heavily. 

 

Sinbad gasps for air, as much from the exertion of it as from having his mouth filled, unable to draw a proper breath. He swallows, vaguely amused that it has no more taste than Ja’far does smell, flopping back against the pillows. “Where,” he pants, eyes still glazed at the intensity of it all, “did that come from? I want to set up a subscription.”

 

Ja'far groans, rolling to the side to bury his face down into the nearest pillow. "Your fault. You looked like you were enjoying it so much, so I just…" A weak, somewhat embarrassed wave of his hand follows.

 

“I always enjoy it with you.” Sinbad wraps a hand around Ja’far’s waist, tugging him close with a grin. “If you let go of the idea that sex is filthy, it’s a lot more fun. Or I don’t know, maybe you like to think of being filthy with me. Whatever pleases you.”

 

"… But it _is_ filthy," Ja'far grumbles, even as he nestles closer. Gingerly, he lifts a hand, carefully thumbing some of the mess from Sinbad's face. "And that's… fine, I just don't enjoy _staying_ filthy."

 

Sinbad catches a slender wrist, bringing that hand to his lips and delicately sucking off the last bit of fluid. “Have I ever denied you a bath with me?”

 

Ja'far exhales a slow breath through his nose, his fingers slowly twisting against Sinbad's tongue. "No," he admits, "you have not." 

 

Sinbad gives a last suck. Then, as much as _he_ likes to lay down and cuddle until he falls asleep after sex, he stands, lifting Ja’far in his arms. “Bath?”

 

There are far _worse_ ways to spend his evening--with Sinbad bleeding out courtesy of his own hand, or his own death pending within weeks, or… a number of other things, none as pleasant as being curled up against Sinbad's chest, albeit sticky and mussed (at the moment).

 

"Only if you're washing my hair as much as I am yours." 

 

“That’s hardly fair. I’ve about twenty times as much as you do.”

 

"Exactly. Reap the benefits and advantages of being my most exalted king. Anyone else, and I would simply chop it off."

 

The idea makes Sinbad shudder. He nearly drops Ja’far into the giant copper tub for the sentence, but refrains. He climbs in, letting them both sink into the warmth, letting out a slow sigh. “You must admit, it’s worth the cost of keeping this heated all the time.”

 

"You're a king, I hardly deny you your luxuries," Ja'far sighs, flopping back into the water and stretching out, wriggling his toes just above the surface. "Especially if it involves being clean and comfortable."

 

Sinbad dips his head back, letting his hair spread out in the water as he removes the tie. “You deserve nice things too, you know. You’ve earned luxuries of your own, and not just when you’re at my side.”

 

"… Except that I want for none of it? Nor do I need it." Ja'far watches with some amusement as a strand of Sinbad's hair ends up tangled about one of his toes. "I'll let you reap the benefits, you enjoy them far more." 

 

“Then you’ll have to let me drag you along with my own luxuries more often,” Sinbad says with a grin, wriggling his toes. “Turn around, come sit on my lap and I’ll do yours first.”

 

With a little sigh of effort, Ja'far moves to do just that, settling himself neatly between Sinbad's thighs. "I don't know how you stand having so much hair."

 

Sinbad crushes a few soap berries in his hand, mixing them with sweet oils as he starts lathering through Ja’far’s silky hair. “Mm, it’s not so difficult. Maybe I need something to remind me where my head’s supposed to be. Doesn’t yours feel light enough to fly away?”

 

"… That's entirely illogical and you know it." Not that Ja'far cares, when Sinbad's very good at this and it feels particularly nice, having Sinbad knead his fingers along his scalp. "Yours just takes so much time."

 

“It’s worth it. I like the way it makes me look. It’s important for the citizens of Sindria--ah, we should call them citisins, that has a nice ring to it--to have a king that’s striking to the eye. It gives them confidence.” Probably.

 

"'Citisins' is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard--ugh, you're so vain sometimes," Ja'far snorts, sounding far more amused than chastising. 

 

Sinbad grins, but his voice is thoughtful. “Do you think vanity is always bad? I mean, it’s because I take such pride in my appearance that I go running every morning, and that makes me healthier. And your lack of ego almost had you dying silently.”

 

"It's more the level you take it to, sometimes…" Ja'far sighs as he sags back against Sinbad's chest, tilting his head back to blink slowly up at him. "I have an ego. Just not about my appearance." 

 

“No ambition. Little sense of self-defense, when you’re not defending me.” Sinbad grins, cupping water in one hand, then tipping it over a bit of Ja’far’s hair. “Never mind, I just remembered. Say, who would you say the best person is at filing paperwork in the entire country?”

 

Ja'far's eyes narrow slightly. "Is there even a question to that?" 

 

“You know how I like to hear you say things. Tell me who the best filer and compiler and sorter and finisher is in all of Sindria.”

 

"I'm going to punch you in the gut. You _know_ I think highly of my skills in such things."

 

“Hmm, highly isn’t the same thing as _the best_.” Sinbad grins, tipping Ja’far’s head back to tip his hair down into the water. “If you don’t think you’re the best, maybe we should hold a competition. Since, as you’ve said before, you think _anyone_ could do your job.”

 

"I'd win." It's a sort of put out response at best, and Ja'far glowers up at him. "Unlike _you_ , I don't like to go around proclaiming my skill. I'd much rather simply show it."

 

Sinbad leans down, pecking a kiss to the tip of his nose. “I’ve never doubted your skill. Not for a moment. I just want to know that you haven’t, either.”

 

"If I didn't have full confidence in it, I wouldn't feel fit to serve such a good king." Ja'far reaches up, his fingers slowly sliding over Sinbad's cheek. "Satisfied?" 

 

Sinbad smiles, leaning into the touch, eyes half-closing. “It’ll do.” _And so will we, for now._

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
